Of King and Country: The Story of The Second Heir
by Jakkani
Summary: "Mission?" Tyrion Menethil raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, mission? When did this become your mission?" "When you saved my life," She said seriously. "I feel as if I owe you, and a Blood Elf always repays her debts." She smirked impishly.CH17 UP!
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: Leave a review or two on your way out, I'll notice and continue the story as best as I can; I just don't have time to spend on something no one is reading : )

I'm not going to pretend this story is lore-proof. While I consider my knowledge of the lore to be fairly decent, there may be the occasional hole that I miss. Leave a comment, and I'll fix it.

Also, I don't own any rights to Arthas or any of the other places or people mentioned in this fiction, besides Claera and Tyrion.

Enjoy the story.

-_Jakkani_

**BOOK ONE: SAVIOR**

He hung from the frozen ledge by one hand, gritting his teeth, surprised that he managed to catch it at all. His grip, iron as it was, was faltering; the snow fell around him in frozen clumps. The wind blew the falling snow almost horizontally, stinging his bare skin with its cold, and as a result of that his fingers were numb.

_It's funny what you notice sometimes._

Tyrion reached, with his free hand, to clasp the frozen ledge and heave himself up onto it; it was a small windowsill on the side of the watchtower, no longer than outstretched arms, but tall and wide enough to sit on if he balled himself up. He did so, tucking his fingers underneath his armpits, rocking back and forth in the freezing cold. He sat there for a moment, gathering himself, but at the same time knowing that the longer he waited, the more likely they'd realize they didn't kill him, and the more likely he'd bleed to death. The gash across his stomach wasn't immediately lethal, but would be if he didn't treat it soon.

He turned, tracing his fingers across the half-frozen windowpane, looking for the latch. There was one, but it was secured with an even more frozen lock. It stung his fingers just to hold the cold steel, let alone try to break it. He reached into his trouser pocket, producing a lock pick, and jammed it into the keyhole; but his fingers were dumb with cold, and refused to follow his commands. Before long, the lock pick slipped from his fumbling fingers, rolled off the windowpane from where he sat, and disappeared into the swirling snowstorm below.

He groaned as he reached for it in vain, kicking himself mentally for dropping it; but it was long gone, fallen hundreds of feet to the earth far below him. His eyes, the icy blue-green that ran in his family, widened in shock.

He sat back on the windowsill, resting his head against it, closing his eyes as the snowstorm raged around him. He was going to die here, the last of the Menethil lineage, frozen to death before anyone knew of his existence.

He was _supposed _to lead his people to redemption against his brother, Arthas; He was _supposed _to reveal that he'd been in hiding, to reveal that there was another heir, and yet Arthas' followers had gotten to him first, stabbing him wildly and tossing him off his own watchtower. The thugs that called themselves The Hand of Arthas weren't particularly stealthy, and he was caught unaware due more to his own carelessness than their skill.

The cold suddenly wasn't so unbearable; in fact, it became comfortable. He sat there, his heartbeat slowing, his blonde hair turning to frost, the cold freezing his eyelids shut for good.

The windowsill suddenly opened, shoving him off the ledge. His eyes exploded open, realizing he was about to fall, but a thick and meaty hand grasped his cape and pulled him, back onto the windowsill, through it, and into the warmth of a room. The man who pulled him in shut the window, latching it closed, and then crossed the room to the door, doing the same.

Tyrion coughed the frost out of his lungs in the fetal position, feeling the warmth of the wooden floor. There was a fireplace in that room; he crawled towards it, his body desperately needing heat. He was so close that he was almost touching the fire with his outstretched hands.

"Oi. Careful, now. You're like to burn yourself, mate."

The ice in his hair began to melt as the warmth returned to his bones. He turned, looking at his savior for the first time. It was a man he didn't recognize, a lesser servant of the tower, with long black hair in a ponytail. He had an eye patch over one eye, but shouldnt've at his age; he was no older than twenty-five. His arms were corded with muscle; his hands thick and callused, with a scarred face. It was the kind of face that was trustworthy, and hard working.

"What...who are you?" The words came out more ragged than he expected, especially for a boy of his age.

"Name's Gentry, my king." The servant sat heavily in a nearby wooden chair.

Tyrion's eyes widened at the words "my king". "What do you mean? I am no king. I am just a lord. Lord of this keep, and nothing more."

His voice lowered to a whisper as he glanced around the room as if he expected to see a spy crouched in the corner. "No, sir, you are Tyrion. Tyrion Menethil. I am no fool, I know everything you know. Your father requested that I watch over you while you grew, and I almost hadn't gotten to you in time." He stood, crossed the room, and began shuffling through his splintery cabinets. He produced a needle, and tucked it under his arm; thread, and bandaging, too.

He ripped open Tyrion's chest piece from where he lay on the floor, revealing the gouge in his stomach. It wasn't a deep stab, more of a glancing slash, but blood still poured free from it. He cleaned it and poured stinging salt in the wound; stitched the skin back together, and wrapped it all in bandages treated with gauze. By the time he was done, Tyrion had cried a bucket of tears.

"You'll be fine, now, I think. As fine as your like to get, at least." Tyrion ran his fingers over the stitches, wincing as the pain spiked every time his finger brushed a stitch.

"I…how? No one…" He lowered his voice to a whisper, giving Gentry his most serious face. "No one was supposed to know of my lineage."

"That doesn't mean they don't know of it. Would you be so quick to forget the men who tried to claim your life an hour ago?"

Tyrion had nothing to say to that.

_A king should always know what to say…I'm no king. I'm just a boy..._

The bed he sat on was cheap and stuffed with hay, not at all what he was used to. He had a feeling that his life of luxury had come to an end, and that it was just one of many things that would change. Unless…

_No, I have a duty to my people. I can't stay her, not any longer._

Gentry handed him a bowl, smoke rising off of it in wisps. He accepted it, nodding as he did so, feeling the extreme heat of the soup inside. It was plain, with beef and radish chunks, but it was enjoyable. He wolfed the soup down as Gentry sat, watching him, smiling.

"You know, I'm a lot older than I look. I was there when you were but a baby." Tyrion looked at the mirror in the room, looking at himself for the first time that day. He had the long, thin face of a young lord, the square jaw of a teenager, the high cheekbones of an elf. He wasn't considered a man yet by many; he was only seventeen summers old, but sometimes he forgot that whilst buried in paperwork and coins he had to count and divide every night. His father always told him, "You work to live, my son. And you live to work." And so, he'd lived out much of his youth filing taxes and sorting coins, while Arthas fought in battles and seduced women.

The stress of being lord of a castle, and secretly heir of King Terenas, had begun to show in his face; dark rings began to appear under his eyes lately, and he was an unhealthy weight. His hair, however, was still bright golden and flowing, the pride of his family.

_Almost like brother…_He thought, grimly, as he gazed at himself.

A dark servant's robe, plain, faded, and black, landed on his lap, along with a small curved dagger in a sheath.

"Let's get moving, then. Wear these, and keep your hood low. We've got to make the city gate by morn, and there are a lot of people that don't want us to do that. Be prepared to kill if need be."

"And you? What's your business?"

"I have family in Southshore, I'd like to visit them. Why do you ask?"

"There's a blockade. No one in or out of the city, understand?" He rested a mailed hand on the pommel of the blade hanging from his hip. "It ain't my rules, lad, I just enforce em'. Give it a few days, it'll pass over."

The gate watchman rubbed his stubble as he thought. "Haven't I seen you before? A friend of the family, perhaps?"

Tyrion nodded, his timid voice shaking. "Yes, I painted your shield a year ago. Have you forgotten me so soon?"

The muscled guard didn't seem to notice the obvious lie. "Ah, yes. You're the lad who lives in the building across the street from the The Bleeding Maiden. The one with the pretty doors, right? Gave me a damn good deal on the job, too." Tyrion nodded, again. He already had shaved his head bald to the scalp, put on Gentry's eyepatch and cut a gap in his eyebrow. And, just as he had hoped, this guardsman did not recognize him. He would miss his hair, so very much.

"Either way, you're like to turn around."

Tyrion nodded, once more, holding out a hand to shake. The guardsman, puzzled, grabbed the hand, and then pulled it away slowly. There were four glittering golden coins in his palm. He stuffed them in his trouser pocket, nodding at Tyrion before turning to address the other men who guarded the south gate.

"Let him through, lads. They're men of the king." The other men, standing in the gateway, uncrossed their spears and let them pass. Tyrion pulled down his hood and followed Gentry to the stable outside of town. The soft snow swallowed up to his knees as he walked, and more than once he stumbled. He pulled his plain black cloak closer about himself as he treaded, dreading the cold.

"Well," huffed Gentry, "that went better than I thought." He untied the horses from the stable, a fine brown mustang and a wide-eyed coal palomino, leaving a silver coin in its place. Tyrion and he mounted up, without a word, riding down the dirt road leading into the east through Silverpine Forest.

Gentry guided them off the main road, and into the deep woods. The rain began to fall, in thick stinging sheets, making the cold all the more unbearable; the trees, dead and absent of leaves, provided little protection. The water made his cloak and hood unbearably heavy, and seemed to be trying to drown him.

_I shouldn't be here. This is a nightmare; I'm actually asleep within my bed back at the keep. _

For a while, the only sound was the horses plodding along in the snow. Tyrion broke the silence, his curiosity killing him.

"So?"

"So what?"

"What do you mean to do now?"

Gentry ducked under a low hanging branch. "I mean to take you to Ironforge, and then to Stormwind." He lowered his voice. "I imagine it is the only place we can rally your people, hard as it may be. Lordaeron has fallen; there is little other choice…" His voice trailed off.

Tyrion had nothing to say to that.

"You're a quiet one, then? Good. I hoped you were." Tyrion opened his mouth to speak. "Hold your tongue until we're out of Hillsbrad, you never know who's listening." He closed it with a grimace, patting his mare as they walked. They would need to water them soon.

The dead trees stood around them like spears pointed at the dark gray skies; the horses had to weave to get between them, and it made traveling a mile take an hour. They rode through lowlands, stubbed with trees and rocks and brush; around frozen lakes, and over low mountain tops. The rain never stopped raining as they rode, although the snow began to melt a bit.

Gentry rode in front of him, heavily wrapped in his cloak; Tyrion was jealous of his warmth- he wasn't used to being out here, in the wilderness. Gentry had two three foot long blades hanging from his back and hip, and a dagger strapped to his thigh. The snow was slowly gathering on his hood, but every once and a while he shook it off. He wore dark brown leather armor underneath his cloak, with no insignia. Tyrion could tell that he was used to this sort of thing, or at least had done it more than once.

Tyrion glanced at the remainder of a wooden sword sticking out of the dirty snow as they rode up the side of a low mountain, and had a flashback of his childhood.

He and his brother were sword fighting as children, practicing their techniques, when Arthas overpowered him. He cracked the wooden blade out of his hand with a wild backswing, causing it to land there in the snow, standing over him with his blade positioned over his head. The wooden blade was heavy, for it was filed with lead, and could easily break a bone; Tyrion flinched at the mere thought as he held his hands up to protect his face.

He dropped the blade to his side, holding out a hand to help his brother up, showing his beaming smile. Their father, watching them both, nodded in satisfaction with their performance.

"Stop."

The word broke him from his train of thought. Gentry stopped suddenly in front of him, holding up a gloved hand. He was turned in the saddle, looking behind them down the mountainside. Tyrion twisted in his saddle to see what he was staring at.

There were four riders trotting up the hillside a half-mile away from them, men with longbows slung across their backs, wearing black leather. They were going twice Gentry and Tyrion's speed, for they were riding pitch black Chargers bred for knights; their cloaks couldn't be seen from where Tyrion was standing, but they were riding in a wedge formation. They didn't seem to be openly chasing them, but were obviously following them.

"They've seen us." Grunted Gentry. "Their shields. Their shields have two blue axes crossed on a black background. What is that?" he said in a hushed whisper. "I've never seen that emblem before."

Tyrion shrugged, his hands subconsciously fingering the knife at his belt for comfort. "I have no idea. I haven't, either."

"Do we run, or do we fight?"

Tyrion was silent, his heart beginning to beat faster as fear creeped into his bowels. He could see two of the men glancing at him, noticing Tyrion was staring back, and then glancing away again. "I...I don't..."

"Well, the closest village is four days away. Do you know how to use a sword?"

"Yes, I do. Kind of." Gentry looked at him. "I trained with my brother." The image of his limbs being almost broken by Arthas's wooden blade flashed before his eyes.

"Well, then. You should be able to defend yourself. He is, after all, considered one of the greatest swordsmen of Azeroth; and besides, they could be friend as well as foe. Let's wait for them to come to us; we've got the high ground, those bows will be useless anyways. "

He sighed the last of his words out. "But keep your steed at the ready, nonetheless." He hopped off his saddle. Tyrion did the same, landing knee-high in the snow. The horses wandered off, noses searching deep in the snow for grass. They loosely leashed the horses to a tree. He knew Gentry didn't truly believe they were allies; he just knew that they wouldn't be able to escape in this weather.

Tyrion leaned against a tree as the rain began to let up, and, eventually, cease altogether. Gentry gathered firewood, humming some unknown tune. Tyrion knew enough about people to know that he was trying to distract himself.

Tyrion pulled flint and tender out of his saddlebags and struck them together, and a small stream of smoke flowed from it. He waved it gently, letting the fire grow to a low glow. Tyrion stomped through the snow, putting his hands to the growing flame. Gentry shuffled through his saddlebags again, and pulled out pork. He impaled it with a small stick, and heated it on the flame, handing it to Tyrion.

"Savor it, lad. It could be the last hot meal you and me ever have." He unhooked the sword hanging from his back and handed it to him as well. Tyrion took it without an instant of hesitation, examining it for the first time. The blade was leaf shaped, longer than a regular sword but shorter than a claymore, and inside of a fine leather scabbard. It was a plain sword, for plain use, but its edge was fine and sharp.

They sat there, eating food in complete silence.

Gentry stared into the campfire absentmindedly as if he were trying to solve a puzzle, his eyes dancing in the reflection of the firelight. His face seemed even more ancient, even more tired, than it already was. One hand absentmindedly fingered a tiny steel "M" that hung from a necklace around his throat.

_I wonder what Gentry is thinking…_

He whispered something, under his breath, barely audible against the pounding rain.

"…Margaret…"

Tyrion had half a mind to ask him, but he decided against it.

The bushes rustled in front of them. Gentry stood. Tyrion stood too, his sword still in its scabbard. The riders were now only yards away from them. They came bustling through the trees one by one, their horses snorting and bucking, until they were all in the clearing where Gentry and Tyrion sat.

Gentry yelled first. "Halt. What do you want with us?"

A gruff man, apparently the leader of the riders, responded. "Nothing, can't we just be passing through?"

"Four armed men following two travelers through the wilderness with unknown emblems on their cloaks? It's unlikely you're just passing through."

"We want your gold, not your life, but if you don't give it to us we won't think twice to kill you and take it either way. You should consider us chivalrous for not just killing you."

Tyrion's voice cracked. "Why? Why must you do this to us?"

He stroked his beard as he turned to Tyrion. "I'm sorry, boy, but we all have mouths to feed and taxes to pay. This is your last warning, give us your gold or we'll do what we have to in order to eat tonight. Nothing personal, we're just trying to get by." All the riders dismounted, pulling out their bows and knocking arrows as casual as if they were preparing to eat whether than to fight. They, obviously, did not see them as a threat.

Gentry grabbed the hilt of the blade hanging from his belt, leaning over to whisper to a terrified Tyrion.

"On the count of three."


	2. Chapter 2

AUTHORS NOTE: I apologize in advance, but this chapter is going to be a bit short. I'm running low on writing time for today, but bear with me; I'll make the next one extra long for all the readers out there : )

_-Jakkani_

**BOOK TWO: AESIR**

The bandits fumbled with their arrows as Gentry and Tyrion charged them, their blades in hand, Gentry screaming his war cry. The arrows were loosed, making a sound like birds taking flight, hissing as they glided past Tyrion's head, and thumping into the wood of the tree trunks near them.

The first bandit's arm was lopped off in an instant as he knocked his arrow; his severed limb falling to the ground as he screamed wildly, clutching at his bloody stump. The other three pulled and knocked more arrows, but Gentry ran between them, a whirlwind of steel, cutting them down as fast as he could get to them. The leftmost archer held his splintered wooden shield up, to no avail; it was cleaved in two along with his head, an explosion of blood and bone and brain that stained the white snow.

Tyrion, on the other hand, dropped his blade, and was now fumbling for it in the snow.

Gentry impaled the downed man who'd lost his hand earlier, finishing him as the other two loaded their arrows and loosed them. Tyrion found his blade in the snow, and pulled it out, walking towards the archers with shaky legs; one of the arrows they loosed landed in Gentry's leg. He fell to the ground in pain, clutching at it, frowning behind his eye patch, cursing to himself as he used his sword to cut the feathered shaft off.

They pulled and knocked another two, pointing it square at Gentry's head; but Tyrion tackled one from behind, cutting his bow clean in two, as the other seemed to just realized he was there. He ran for his life, into the woods, faster than a rabbit. The last bandit scrambled on his back in the snow, looking up at Tyrion with wide fear filled eyes, knowing what was to come next as Tyrion pointed the sword at his chest, it's point hovering right over his heart.

Gentry grunted from somewhere behind him. "Finish him, you fool!"

_I have to._

A tear ran down the mans cheek as he stared up at Tyrion. "Please, I have a family!" He had a foreign accent.

_Someone's father. Someone's brother. Someone's husband._

Tyrion dropped the sword in the snow, cursing to himself at his weakness. "I can't kill you." He ran his hands over his shaved head, his eyes beginning to welt and turn red with tears. "Just…go." His voice was shaky and uneven as he waved him away.

The bandit looked at him for a moment in disbelief.

Then he flashed a sinister smile behind his matted beard, pulling a glinting piece of steel from his boot in an instant, and tackling Tyrion to the ground before he could react. The man was on top of him, sitting on his chest, but Tyrion grabbed his wrist, so for the moment he could do nothing but struggle to free it. Tyrion knew that this wouldn't last long; he was a scrawny boy, with little to no arm strength, and all that was keeping the dagger at bay was strength by adrenaline. He heard Gentry screaming somewhere in the back of his mind.

His body was so heavy, and his lungs could only expand so far with his weight on him; his mind froze with cold blue panic as he ripped his wrist free from Tyrion's grip. The blade came down as Tyrion flailed his hands wildly; the dagger punched into him somewhere between his ribs. Something inside of him broke; something inside of him wouldn't work. He pulled the blade out of Tyrion's body, lifting it again, but Tyrion caught it; the point came down slowly as he struggled, poking his sternum at first, impaling him slowly. Tyrion screamed hoarsely as the steel pierced his lungs.

All the weight was suddenly off him.

Tyrion opened his eyes to see the bandit on the ground beside him, being stabbed over and over again in the face and neck by Gentry. He, too, struggled at first, much like Tyrion, pushing at Gentry's face and trying to grab the knife, but his hands slowly stopped moving as the stabbing continued. Then, Gentry collapsed on top of him, unconscious from lack of blood.

The edges of his vision blurred. He rolled over onto his stomach in the snow, which was a horrible idea; his blood began pouring out and pooling beneath him at an alarming rate. He vomited into the snow, crawling towards Gentry. He seemed to crawl for hours before he reached him, shaking Gentry's unconscious form.

"Gentry." He coughed the words out, crimson blood dribbling down his chin. "Gentry, wake…wake up…" He rolled him over and weakly slapped his stubbled face, to no avail. He was dead, or near; his eyes were glassed over and lifeless, staring at Tyrion in a death snarl.

He didn't have enough strength to cry; he laid his head on Gentry's chest, closing his eyes. The pain began to spike as the adrenaline abandoned him, unbearable pain. He was on the edge of consciousness, knowing that he was going to die here.

He could see his own body, young and beautiful and dead. He was flying, away from the filth of his flesh, to be free.

Far off in the distance, he heard the words,

"_Vendai le lorei? Valana va lorei!" _followed by footsteps in the snow.

A hooded ranger, wearing a green cloak, ran out of the woods and shook Tyrion's shoulder. He didn't respond.

_Hey…hey! Leave that alone!_

He wanted to leave his crippled body behind on this earth. But the voice persisted, flipping him over in the snow, ripping open his shirt to reveal a blood-stained chest, pumping his heart and breathing into Tyrion's lungs through his mouth. He continued pumping his heart, although it was slippery and sticky all at once, and breathing through his mouth, desperately trying to bring back his spirit to his body.

_He is so annoying. Why can't he just leave me alone?_

A dozen other footsteps sounded through the snow. More hands began stroking his head, wrapping bandages around his limp body, and sticking their hands into his wound. He could feel his body being repaired, the veins being reconnected with some type of magic, his heartbeats slowly returning, the blood and bone returning to their rightful place.

He flashed red anger_. No! NO! I don't want to go back!_

He came back.

He wheezed, suddenly alive again. He coughed more and more blood out, and then laid on his back in the snow, motionless, the relief of unconsciousness taking him.

He could almost see Arthas, frowning in disappointment at his brother's weakness.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi Kyle :3

**BOOK THREE: DUNHAS**

Her captain, along with the rest of the elven rangers, were departing. He stopped, and said to her in Thalassian, "This boy is young, and his heart is weak, but The Farseer tells us that this boy is important. The spirits say his name is Tyrion." He shook his head. "I don't care, I've never believed in all of that. Anyways, your orders are to watch over him. If he doesn't wake in two months, leave him, but don't let anyone else know of his existence."

"Can't I travel with you? I don't want to protect this…this _human_. He is filth." His mighty head turned towards Claera as he finishing tying his travelers' pack. He looked at her with a scowl.

"Er...filth, _sir."_ , she corrected.

His face calmed a bit.

"Claera, I have my orders, and you have yours. Do as you are commanded."

With that he turned and took his leave, his richly dyed green cloak flowing behind him.

She sat on a tree stump next to the sleeping boy, all wrapped in furs, and sighed.

_I am always left to do this sort of thing._

Sighing again, she took out a small block of elvish wood, and began carving it with a small knife. She already had an idea of what she wanted to carve; she watched as her fellow Blood Elves faded into the forest, like sugar dissolving in water, until they were gone…

He still slept at her feet two weeks later, wrapped in a bundle of sheets near the low campfire. He still barely moved, if at all; the statue she began carving when he first arrived now resembled The Sun King standing victorious. It still needed refinement, but it was-

She heard movement in the snowy brush for the second time that day.

The statue toppled off her lap into the snow, half finished and forgotten, as she stood, gripping her sword.

""I know you're there!"

She steeled herself, getting a better grip on her sword. "And I know you've been watching me. Come out." Claera said with more confidence than she felt.

She pulled the blade out of her sheath and held it at her side, speaking louder. "Come out, I said. I know you're there, mouth breather. You speak so loud, I could shoot you in the dark."

To her surprise, he did. A man strolled out of the trees - obviously the man who had made the noise - and stood to face her. While he wasn't a charging armored dwarf, he was still a threat, and probably had no business being in The Arathi Highlands.

The human was unshaven and dirty; his hair matted and damp and stuck to his forehead with sweat, his face dark and smeared with mud and snow. His ragged leathers told her that this man had been in the wilderness for a while.

"Come on out," he said roughly in common, a small smirk on his face that Claera was not entirely comfortable with. It was the first time she'd heard common spoken in front of her; she studied it in her books when she was a child, but never found anyone to speak it with. Knowledge was power in the Blood Elf culture, and she wanted to know as many languages as possible.

Claera gasped as two other men came out from the brush on either side of her, both having the same appearance as the first man. They grinned and glanced towards the first man for commands.

"Soldiers of the Alliance?" she said, feeling fear once again creep into her bowels. She switched targets with her sword, keeping them all at bay. Still, they crept forward.

All three of them heartily laughed; after a moment the first man, also in response, slowly drew a hidden dagger. It was heavily rusted and stained dark red. "No, child," he said, still wearing a smirk. "We don't have much to do with the Alliance." He paused for a moment, as if evaluating her. "You look lost. Maybe you should come with us."

"I'd rather not," Claera said, her eyes switching between all three of the men around her.

_How could they have found me in the middle of nowhere?_

"It wasn't really a request," said the man. He gave her a full grin and she saw that his teeth were yellowed and broken. "Maybe you should put down that sword too. That wasn't a request, either."

Claera did not reply, her mind racing with ways to escape this situation. They had her surrounded, and, given their appearance, they probably had a much better idea of the lay of the land than she. She had a bow, but it wasn't strung, nor could she wield it effectively against three men.

The man on the right reached for her sword, grabbing her wrist with one hand as the other went for her neck. She whirled on him, her free hand going for the spare dagger she always kept in her pocket, but the other man had already grabbed her shoulders and pressed the blade of his dagger into the side of her neck. She froze, feeling the sharp tip already starting to draw blood. The man who had tried to grab her sword instead reached for her pocket, removing the knife that was hidden here.

The man with the broken teeth had not moved, and, still grinning, said "You don't want to be out here by your lonesome, child. Now we can make this easy, hard, or deadly. Which would you have it?"

Claera swallowed and closed her eyes, feeling a cold sensation sweep into her bowels.

_I should never have joined the Rangers. _

There was no choice. Not at this point. She slackened her grip and heard rather than saw her sword fall to the ground. She opened her eyes and watched as the man bent to pick it up, pausing once to look it over.

"That's a good girl," he said. "No one'll hurt you unless you want us to. Shane, take the boy too, if he's still alive."

"What do you want with us?" Claera asked in a whisper.

He looked at her, not answering immediately. He motioned for her and the two other men to follow him. The one named Shane easily plucked the hundred pound boy from the snow, slinging him over his shoulder. The boy continued sleeping as if nothing had happened. Together they went through the forest in the same direction that Claera had originally came two weeks ago. "Nothin'," he said finally. "This is just business. Don't take it personal, child."

The dagger was removed from her neck and she was once again able to walk on her own, though the two men did not leave her side.

_How had these __**humans**__ catch me unaware?_

"What do you mean by business?" Claera asked at last.

"Simple," said the man. "I take you to Stranglethorn, I give ya'll to my partners for some gold. After that doesn't really matter." He laughed and she could smell the stink from his breath.

Though the man didn't say it directly, Claera understood the implications well enough. They were being _sold. _"What for?"

"Lotsa reasons, child," he said. "Someone always in need of a live person to do what they want with. Maybe need yaw for an experiment. Maybe need yaw for parts - I 'member selling a human to some alchemist who needed the _freshest_ parts. Yaw..."

He looked her once over and grinned, and Claera knew precisely what he was thinking. "...yaw might fetch a fair price to someone who happens to want a plaything. The boy will make a good mine worker, if he ever grows some muscle, but there's people who'd take a plaything like that too, I reckon." He lit a pipe and began to smoke it as they walked. "Yehup, lotta sick people in tha' world."

He chuckled again, and she did not ask anything more.

It did not take long to reach the bandits' camp, though in that time Claera managed to learn a few things about her captors. From their discussions, she gathered that the man with the broken teeth was their leader of sorts, and also that his name was Dunhas. It was a mixed group of bandits, consisting of Orcs, Dwarves, Humans, Trolls, and even a couple Tauren. More than that, it was clear that she was not the only one that these smugglers had taken.

The man next to her spoke for the first time when they reached camp. "Should we just throw this'un and the boy in toegetha'?"

The makeshift camp was small, and - Claera realized with a sigh - within sight of the road. It was composed of two small tents and a massive cart that was currently resting on two massive props. An aged kodo, that Claera guessed pulled the cart, was tied nearby, grazing on the frozen over foliage. In the back of the cart, Claera noticed, was a sort of wooden cage half-hidden by a pile of sacks and crates.

"Yeah," Dunhas grunted. "Best off that way."

The man roughly grabbed her arm and took her towards the cart. He yanked the back open, and climbed up into the cart, drawing a pair of keys to unlock the wooden cage.

"Get inside," grunted the man, swinging the door open. Getting impatient, he pulled her up onto the cart, and then threw her and the unconscious boy into the cage, locking it behind her.

Claera was barely aware of her jailer anymore. Her focus was instead on the boy that seemed to be in a coma. His inability to wake, despite the day's events, began to trouble her. She hated humans, more than anything else, especially since one had just captured her, but she still felt a pang of concern.

"Neither of you better cause any trouble," said the man outside, but Claera was barely listening. "Dunhas don't like no damaged goods."

And with that he strode away.

Tyrion dreamt deeply, the type of dream that only a coma can produce.

"You're pitiful."

His brother stood over him in his dreams, clad in shimmering metal made of ice, Frostmourne in hand. The Lich King's helmet was also on his head; he wasn't sure if it was his brother or the lich that was speaking. Arthas was huge, illogically tall, and he blotted out the icy sun with his body as he spoke.

"I am ashamed to call you my brother." He spit down on Tyrion, who cowered on the ground in fear.

It was a quiet week. Despite being captured by slave traders shortly after being marooned in a half-frozen forest for weeks without shelter, her only companion being a boy in a coma that happened to be her most hated enemy race, Claera thought it a lovely bunch of evenings.

Nature always put her at peace, and she got plenty of it; on both sides of the cart were endless tress and forest and wildlife. She was fed well, and slept well, and was even given pen and paper to draw or write on, as well as whatever instrument she asked for.

_Accommodating slave traders. How ironic._

One day, as Claera was doodling a Tauren pirate on a sheet of paper, she heard the boy speak in his sleep.

"Jykjalfggh…"

Claera looked over the sheet of paper at the sleeping boy. He was sprawled on his back on the other side of the cage. She sat down the sheet of paper and crawled on all fours across the cage, staring at him closer. His face twitched, as if there were a mosquito on his nose. She came closer.

"THE PAAANCAKE OF SOULLLLLLLLSS!", he screamed, his back arching as he emptied every ounce of air in his lungs, his eyes bulging as he yelled. Then he scrambled back against the wall of the cage, his eyes darting around in fear as tears ran down his cheeks, still screaming. Cleara screamed as well, out of shock, and the men guarding the caravan screamed out of fear. The caravan rattled to a stop—Dunhas came rushing to the back of the caravan, and saw the blood elf, the boy, and three of his men screaming at the top of his lungs, and couldn't help but scream himself.

The boy finally calmed a bit, his chest heaving; sweat running down his head as he looked around. They all stopped screaming. Dunhas, his scream being especially high pitched, was embarrassed. He stared his men down with the most vicious face he could muster, and then went to the front of the caravan. The guards looked at each other in confusion and shock, and before long the caravan began moving again. After five minutes, everything was back to normal.

And the boy was still looking around with wide eyes as if he were in hell instead of in a cage.

"You had best stay away from me, Human," Claera said in Thalassian by accident. She fumbled over her words, trying to translate them to common, but didn't know the word for _Away_ in common.

She felt very vulnerable without her weapon, and all too clearly she began to remember the tales her mother told her of the humans and their blood sacrifices and rituals. Not to mention the cannibalism...

"What's that supposed to mean?" the human replied in Thalassian, looking up at her with fear filled blue-green eyes.

Claera stood there, stunned. She had not expected the human to be able to speak Thalassian. What else could this human possibly know? She found herself staring and quickly looked away. This was her first encounter with the Alliance - human or otherwise.

"Nothing," she said, her voice quiet. The boy simply stared at her for a long moment, as though expecting her to continue. Finally, he closed his eyes, and Claera felt her heart begin to pound once more as she finally realized where she was.

_I should never have come out here!_

"Nothing," the Blood-Elf said, and fell silent. Tyrion watched her, studying her, disliking her almost instantly. What had she said in that foreign tongue of hers? He could understand simple Thalassian, but not complicated phrases.

_Something high and' mighty, _he thought. _Leave it to Blood Elves to be arrogant even when a prisoner in a cage._

It only took another moment for him to come to another conclusion.

_She's afraid…_

It was apparent in the way her hand clutched one of the wooden poles of the cage, in the way her legs shivered as though she were freezing, and in the rapid pace of her breaths. She was having a mental breakdown as she glanced around for an escape, and was either too weak to do anything about it or too young. Tyrion, looking at her through almost closed eyes, decided that it was likely a mixture of both. She appeared to be his age, maybe a year younger.

He closed his eyes, wanting some sleep, not overly concerned with the Blood Elf in the cage with him. He felt her watching him.

Tyrion didn't like Blood Elves. He didn't like their behavior, he didn't like their way of speaking, and he didn't like the arrogant way they looked down on him. Most of all, however, he hated the way they tried to kill him every time he ran into one of their kind.

_I want to go home._


	4. Chapter 4

**(AUTHORS NOTE): **I appreciate all the views and re-views I've been receiving for the populace; it drives my urge to update and continue this story. Leave a note on the way out with criticism and comments, and I will continue to tell the story I have to tell.

-Jakkani

**BOOK FOUR: SIN'DOREI**

"Where are we going?" she said suddenly in Thalassian, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion opened one eye, and saw that she hadn't moved. "I don't know," he said.

The Blood-Elf didn't reply, instead staying silent.

Tyrion continued to watch the exotic girl, his curiosity aroused, and slowly he saw her bend her legs so that she could sit. She stayed in the far corner, however. Cautious bordering on paranoid, as though a few extra steps would prevent him from attacking her if he even wanted to.

Of course, Tyrion had little to no combat skill or prowess; he couldn't see why she'd be so afraid of him. She had a slightly smaller frame than even he, and was a half an inch shorter. She appeared to be his age, as well, but was arrogant either way. They were both unarmed, obviously, and if they were in a fist fight it'd be fairly even.

So why was she so terrified?

"My name is Tyrion," he said at length, watching for her reaction. He paused, not even sure if she heard him. "And yours?"

She glared at him, her expression a mixture of anger and fear. "That's none of your concern, _Human_."

Tyrion felt his temperature rise with her sneering comment. Her tone carried the same, native arrogance all Blood-Elves managed to have, and her use of the word 'Human', as though it were an insult...

"It's funny that you think it's not my concern," he said heatedly. "When we both are stuck in the same cage."

"I don't need your help," her voice whipped out in response. Then, in a quieter tone, "I can take care of myself."

Tyrion's eyes flashed. "Then how did you end up here?"

"Just stay away, Human," she warned. Her voice quavered near the end, and she tried to cover it up, but Tyrion heard anyway.

_This Blood-Elf doesn't know what she is doing._

Rather than respond, Tyrion decided to let the exchange rest for the night and returned to closing his eyes, though his thoughts remained on the elf. She was not experienced, that much was clear. While a certain measure of fear was understandable - and even expected from anyone who was sane - her fear was untamed; he, too, was scared to death, but at least he could hide it well.

Tyrion did not lie to himself. He feared what the smugglers would do with him as well. He knew how smugglers such as his captors operated - and in all likelihood he would end up as a source of organs and fluids for some backwater apothecary in Stonetalon. Unless he escaped, that is; he was past fear now, in self preservation mode.

He laid back, listening, hearing her light and fast breaths, knowing that she would not be getting any sleep tonight.

After a moment, he was fast asleep.

The next morning Tyrion woke to the sun beaming into his eyes. He roused himself, hearing commotion in the camp and suspecting that soon they would be moving on. He stood up, frowning as he noticed that the Blood-Elf was watching him warily, her arms crossed over her knees. She had indeed not slept at all last night.

Tyrion crossed the cage to get a better view of the camp, seeing that the tents were already packed away and that the smugglers were preparing to hook up the kodo to the cart. Nothing, he noted, was being left behind.

"We're leaving soon," Tyrion said to himself as much as to her. She looked up at him and he met her gaze. "If you want to get out of here, you need sleep." A memory of her words the previous night flashed through his mind and he added, "Or are elves too good for sleeping, too?"

"I don't need advice from a Human," she muttered darkly.

"Then it's gonna be a long ride to Stranglethorn, elfling."

The camp was almost completely packed up, and as the other two men began to bring the kodo over to the cart, Dunhas grabbed two hunks of bread out from a sack and handed them through the bars to Tyrion.

"Eat," Dunhas said. "Give one to her."

Tyrion nodded, taking one piece for himself and carelessly tossing the other to the elf in the corner. He took a large bite and swallowed, barely tasting it. From the corner of his eye he saw that the elf hadn't moved, and was instead staring at the bread as though it was insulting her.

"You eatin' that?" he asked, wondering why Blood-Elves had to be so damned impossible.

"You expect me to eat that when it was tainted by a Human?" she said in a scathing voice. Then, in Thalassian, she added, "_Dal'lon Rath-forn Sellet_."

Tyrion turned sharply towards her, forgetting his bread. "What you say, _elfling_?" He felt his old anger rising, and once again wondered why he bothered speaking with this intolerable elf.

"The hands of the pure cannot mix with the hands of the sullied," she said, her eyes narrowed. "I will starve before eating that bread."

Laughter bubbled up into his throat - harsh, sharp laughter that had little to do with humor. He clutched his sides as he slid down to the ground, dropping his bread, his throat ready to break as he laughed himself teary eyed.

She stared at him, alarmed. Red entered her cheeks. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

"Pure?" Tyrion echoed, grinning though it did not reach into his eyes. His laughter quickly died. "You call yourselves _pure?_ Humans are better with magic than Blood-Elves."

"Better? Hardly."

"At least my people aren't addicted to it." He said bitingly.

"Yes, but OUR king wasn't murdered by his own son, was he?"

Tyrion's eyes widened in sudden anger. "You're going into some dangerous places, elfling. Shut your damn mouth." said Tyrion warningly. The mention of his father and brother caused images to flit through his mind. Unwelcome images. He stood, balling his fists.

She was standing now as well, fury lighting her eyes, her arms crossed defiantly. "Then don't start what you can't finish. Maybe you humans should start learning to control your own kin before you start using magic."

Tyrion was becoming truly angry now; not only was she insulting the human race, she was insulting him personally with an irrelevant point; that added to the infuriating images of his brothers betrayal flitting through his mind caused him to come to a fury. His hand involuntarily drifted to his side where he normally kept his sword, wanting to kill her on the spot. Then, remembering where he was, he raised it again.

"What are you going to do, _Human?_" she asked, her voice shaking though her eyes kept their fierce light.

"Don't call me that, elfling," he warned. He was trying to calm himself before he strangled her.

"What?"

"Don't say _Human_ like it's an insult," Tyrion snarled. He began walking towards her.

"Then maybe you shouldn't say _elfling _like an insult, either," she retorted. "Besides, Human barbarity makes it so that I hardly have to make it an insult."

Tyrion shockingly realized _exactly_ what she was referring to. Her mother told her stories about the human race. Tyrion sneered. "Then maybe I should go ahead and eat you, huh? Make myself a nice meal. Cook you up in a pot and have at it."

The sudden fear in her eyes told him all he needed to know. He snorted and turned his back towards her, returning to his corner. "You elves don' know anything," he spat.

The banging on the side of the cage stopped their exchange instantly. It was Dunhas, his face red, looking between the Blood-Elf and the Human suspiciously.

"I don't want any trouble back here," he snapped. "You two keep away from each other - I don't need to be taking any price hits because of delivering damaged goods."

Dunhas stared at the Human. "Will that be a problem?"

"No," said Tyrion. He began to feel ashamed for letting this girl provoke him.

He turned his attention to the Blood-Elf. "How about you?"

She looked at Dunhas for a moment, glancing once at Tyrion. "No."

"Good," Dunhas said, then, looking inside the cage, saw Tyrion's half-eaten piece of bread along side the Blood-Elf's untouched piece. "Eat up, we're moving soon." He stepped away from the cage and returned to the front of the cart.

Tyrion made no move to pick up his bread. Though his anger had cooled, he was still not in the mood for eating. He also felt more than a little ashamed - a man without self-control was a dead man, and he had shown no self-control.

_Why does it matter? She just believes what he people told her, _he asked himself. Never before had he been in such an argument before. _That was no good. If you to get out of this, you'll need her. And she needs you too._

Tyrion risked a glance in her direction, and noticed that her head was against the wall and her eyes were closed - fast asleep. The night had caught up with her.

He reached over and grabbed the piece of bread that he dropped during their argument, and promptly finished it. He was never one to waste food. He bordered on taking the piece that she abandoned as well, but, after a moment, decided against it. He was sure that she would be hungry when she woke.

Tyrion took another moment to watch her as the cart slowly began rumbling away from camp. From the front he heard the grunts of the kodo as it tried to work up momentum, and he shifted his position to make himself more comfortable as the cart ran through the ruts and dips in the roughly cut path that they were taking. The snow began to appear less and less often as they moved throughout the day.

It did not seem to bother the Blood-Elf, however, as she was still fast asleep, her fiery red hair almost covering her eyes, despite the calls from the men up front and the many jolts they were receiving as the cart rode across a particularly rough patch.

Tyrion did not see much in her. There was a fire in her anger, sure, but that was more fueled by her fear than anything. She was a manifestation of all the arrogance and intolerance that he saw in the Blood-Elf race, and that did little to make him want to work with her.

But work with her he had to. He would need her to escape this place - he was certain. It was of little consequence of how offensive he found her - the reality was that he would have to tolerate her to live.

And, more than anything, the Menethils knew how to survive.


	5. Chapter 5

_(A/N: Im not going to pretend that this will be lore-proof. I haven't played WoW in weeks. My goal here is to tell a good story with good characters and everything else can be secondary. Feel welcome to leave a review on your way out. Well, then...)_

**BOOK FIVE: OGRE**

Claera slept for the greater part of the day, and when she finally woke she kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to refresh all those memories from the previous day that she was hoping was just a bad dream. She stayed that way for a while, listening to the cart creak and groan over the uneven path, attempting to will herself back to unconsciousness, until finally she opened her eyes to the beaming sun.

Judging from the sun's height in the sky it was late afternoon, and, looking around, she saw that they were still in the depths of Arathi Highlands, taking some backwoods road that she did not even know existed.

Claera turned, seeing that the human was watching her, and returned his gaze. She had not intended to fall asleep in the presence of that _creature_ in the corner, but it happened. She certainly did not trust the boy, and half-feared that he would throttle her in her sleep if he had the chance. But then, with the guards so close by, perhaps he would not chance it. Eventually, the human broke off his gaze and stared idly outside the cage.

Claera thought back to the earlier argument that she had with the human, feeling a small measure of embarrassment at what she had said. But not too much, he'd deserved it… right?

_Some of the things that cretin had said_, she seethed to herself. _Calling me a fool and...an elfling._ She wasn't entirely sure why she found the latter so offensive. She was, after all, and elf.

_And what did he mean when he said "You elves don't know anything"?_

The question was starting to bother her. What did that mean? At length, she decided not to think too much about it. After all, she wasn't dealing with a normal, civilized person, and she didn't have the courage to ask him.

Slowly, over time, her thoughts began to drift back to Silvermoon, and, specifically, her mother.

Claera could only begin to imagine what her mother would have to say about her current predicament. Surely something about not listening to her, and being thick headed. _And now you're captured, caged, and thrown with in with a human, _she imagined her hissing_._

She sometimes felt guilty over leaving her mother in Silvermoon, especially with her ever-degrading sight. Blindness was beginning to take over her mother, and Claera regretted leaving before her mother had time to adjust. But Claera _had_ to. Some things couldn't wait.

Besides, she originally thought she could always return to Silvermoon later. Claera did not consider that at some point she would be unable to.

Realizing that she was still watching the human, she looked away, and her eyes fell on the untouched piece of bread that he had thrown to her. Claera remembered what she had rashly said previously, and now, more keenly aware of the rumbling in her stomach, she was bordering on reaching over and taking it. Her eyes once again flitted to the human, surprised that he hadn't taken it while she slept.

_He probably prefers flesh to bread,_ she decided. Humans were widely known for their preference for cannibalism—She'd heard stories from all of her peers and elders, and knew of their tribal ways.

Quietly, she extended her hand and picked up the bread, bringing it to her lap and tearing off a small piece. It was old and stale, and she was sure that she could smell where the human's hands had touched it. However, hunger overrode her pride and quickly she chewed and swallowed it.

Claera looked up and saw that the human was once again staring at her, an unreadable expression on his hair began to grow out since they first met, and now was a short and shaggy white-blonde. With his high cheekbones and fair skin, he could even possibly pass for a Blood Elf…

Claera stopped suddenly, shocked and disgusted at her own train of thought.

She stared daggers at him, expecting him to make some insulting remark, but instead he turned away, returning his attention to the outside, careless as if he weren't in a cage at all.

She slowly finished eating her bread, her mind still on the human in the corner. He had offered Claera his name, she vaguely recalled, and now she wondered what his motives were.

_I'll have to be careful,_ she told herself. If she wanted to have any chance of escaping, she would need help, and that help would have to be provided by that human - the same human that she had argued with earlier that day. Could she make amends? Should she?

Claera knew from what she read that Humans had long memories and longer swords. They were wretched and spiteful, cunning and ruthless, and she knew that the moment that this one had a clear chance he would kill her and take her head to his king, or chief, or whatever it was they called it.

"Wont be long now," said the human. Claera suddenly stopped eating. She had harbored a blind hope that he had somehow forgotten about her. "One week, two weeks maybe."

"Until what, hu-" Claera stopped herself, remembering their argument, and instead said again, "Until what?" She quickly stuffed more bread in her mouth, hoping that the human hadn't caught what she almost said.

The Human glanced darkly at her, hearing her slip-up. "Stranglethorn."

Claera did not reply, understanding what he was telling her. They would have ten days to find a way out of this cage, two weeks at most. For the first time she carefully examined the cage around her, studying its sturdy wooden bars, its lock, at last frowning. There were no apparent weaknesses, and she had no tools to work with...

She suddenly looked curiously in the human's direction.

The human, as those sensing her gaze and reading her intent - turned his head halfway, as though listening. The men in the front of the cart were talking and laughing and seemed altogether distracted. This, combined with the fact that the cage was partially obscured by piles of supplies and other materials, gave them a perfect opportunity.

Almost lazily, the human stood up and wandered to what she was beginning to view as 'her' side of the cage. She stiffened as he sat next to her, resting his head on the wall, his eyes only half-open. Her nose crinkled as she smelled the stench wafting from him, and carefully she scooted away, feeling very uncomfortable at their close proximity.

"Four hands are better than two, and two pairs of eyes are better than one… You might see something I don't," the human said, not looking at her.

Claera did not answer at first, as she was still preoccupied with the short distance he was from her - striking distance...

Grabbing distance…

Cannibal distance.

However, when she looked up and saw his calm - almost relaxed – expression, she fleetingly wondered whether that expression was intended for her benefit.

She gritted her teeth. She was afraid of him, and he knew it.

"What do you have in mind?" Claera knew it was not a direct answer to his question, and intended it to be that way. _What do you have to offer?_ Was what she meant.

"These men are human," he said evasively. "They bleed and spit and piss like we do. Fear makes the wolf bigger than it really is."

Claera blinked, shocked by his sudden wisdom. "But they are part of the alliance, right? Can't you talk to them?"

"These men are as much a part of the Alliance as the Gurubashi are of the Horde," said Tyrion with more heat than he intended. "Even I know that." He stopped, turning suddenly towards her.

"And you?" the Human continued. "Are you alone? Or are there other Blood-Elves coming-"

"You won't get any information about the Horde out of me." Claera narrowed her eyes.

The human cast her an annoyed look. "I don't care about the Horde. I care about getting out of here alive. I am alone, and no Alliance are coming for me. If you have Horde coming, well..."

"I'm not about to betray the Horde by telling you _anything_," Claera said sharply. "Whether or not I have companions nearby doesn't concern you." She folded her arms stubbornly.

In fact, she did not expect anyone to come looking for her anytime soon. She worked alone, and her superiors would not notice her disappearance for several days. She received a strange pleasure in withholding that piece of information.

"I'm not fighting for the Alliance right now," said the Human. "I'm no traitor, but I'm no fool either. You think your Horde friends care about that?"

Claera eyed him carefully, unsure of whether to believe him. He was claiming to be uninvolved in the war - to be a bystander…and yet, he looked of high royalty, the smoothness in his hands and face testament to that fact. She wasn't sure what to think.

She could almost hear her mother's voice, a distant echo from the past. _What a human says and what a human does are two very different things, dear._

"That's not my problem," she heard herself saying.

"Course not," the human said. "But I don't think I have much to worry about. No one's coming for you, I can tell."

"Is that so," Claera said. "How would you know, _Human_?" The last word slipped off her tongue unintentionally.

"Tyrion, I mean." She whispered under her breath.

The human either didn't hear that or didn't care anymore. "Because no one would be as afraid as you when they have allies coming," he said harshly.

"I'm not afraid," she said, lying. In truth the entire situation was beginning to break her down. Silvermoon had been stifling but it also had been _safe_, and the prospect of capture and death had not been something she seriously considered.

"You and all the Blood-elves," the human said. "You all lie to yourselves."

Claera silently seethed, trying to remember why she was bothering to try and have a conversation with him. Then, she remembered.

"So is there a reason you're over here?" she asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice.

"Yeah, there _was_," the human said. "But now I don't think you're worth it. I think I'd find more pleasure in your death than for us to escape."

Claera's eyes went wide with surprise as the human got up to return to his side of the cage. He did not glance back at her - actually, he was pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"Wait," she said suddenly.

He stopped, slowly turning his head around as though through great effort.

Claera sighed, knowing it was time to shelf her pride in favor of her own preservation. "Come back."

The human stored at her for a moment before narrowing his green eyes. "I don't take orders from some elf." He turned away, and started walking towards his corner again.

Claera knew she was being tested. She would not beg. She would never beg. "Come back, _please_."

The human stopped suddenly, as though considering her words. He stood there for a long moment, standing erect with his dirty fists balled, being jostled slightly as the cart went over rocks and dips in the road. Claera watched him with ill-concealed nervousness, wondering whether he would go back to his corner or come back to her. Her life, and her fate, rested on him. He turned to her, slowly.

She tried to read his expression, but found it to be - like everything else about him - completely foreign.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Four Hands Are Better Than Two**

"I suppose I could do that," the human said at last, something like a smirk crossing his features and then vanishing before she could clearly identify it. With the ambiguity in the human's expressions, she wondered if she misunderstood it. His face was not easy to interpret; fear and anger could easily be confused.

He sat back down next to her, and she tried to ignore the smell that once again invaded her nostrils.

_Don't humans bathe? _She asked herself, resisting the temptation to pinch her nose.

A second thought surfaced in the back of her mind. _Probably not a lot of opportunities to do that when you're locked up in a cage._

"Four hands are better than two," she said, referencing the words that he used.

"Good that you see it my way," said the human, his voice devoid of any humor or sarcasm. He paused for a moment, and then in a lower voice continued, "The humans are stopping soon to change carts."

Claera raised an eyebrow. "How do you know this?"

He flicked his ear with one finger. "I'm listening when they think I'm not," he said. "They are changing carts tonight, and they will be needing to move us. We both can take them then, when they try to move us."

"The smugglers aren't stupid," said Claera, feeling all too uncomfortable with the human's idea. "They'll be expecting that."

"No," the Human said, his eyes lighting up. "That's the trick. They will try to move us tonight, when they think we're sleeping. But we won' sleep." He looked at her meaningfully, as though trying to get a point across.

Claera did not say so, but she doubted that the human's plan would be as simple as he said it would be. For one, the men would undoubtedly be armed, and for another the plan required a certain amount of trust. What if he intended for her to attack first, and then didn't support her as she got overwhelmed? Or tried to flee as she fought? It only took one wound, and shed fall.

As though sensing her thoughts, the human added, "I'm no backstabber. If you fight, I fight, and then we both go home."

Claera wasn't much reassured by the human's words. Deceitfulness and outright lying would not be below a desperate human. And even if they did escape, she harbored no doubt that the human would kill her the first chance he got after they were out of harm's way. There was little appeal in attempting to fight a human while unarmed.

But she had little choice. It was either escape with him or allow herself to be sold by the smugglers - and she had no intention of letting the latter happen. Given the nature of the smugglers' business, she would much rather risk it with the human.

Besides, if Claera managed to separate herself from him during the escape, there would be little risk of him later being able to find her. It would be all too easy to preserve herself without attempting to trick him.

"Tyrion, was it? Fine," Claera said at length. She turned towards him. "I'll trust you for this."

_She's a liar._

Tyrion knew she was lying the moment the words rolled off her tongue.

_Yes, she is a liar, but a fool she is not._

He was no fool, either. He wouldn't give her life for hers. The fact that she had the same mindset just made it a little bit easier for him.

He did give her his word, and he would protect her until her life was no longer in danger. However, he wouldn't risk his life for her- He was the prince of Lordaeron, his life was more important that hers. Without him, there was no hope.

He simply chose the route of survival. He did not deny it: the world was likely better off with one less blood-elf in it, though that wasn't a factor in his decision. He would protect her if he could.

"Then we have an agreement," Tyrion said, standing up. He glanced furtively to the front of the cart, seeing that the bandits were still preoccupied, and returned to his corner, glad to be away from the elf.

.

As for the blood-elf with him...he was not even sure what she was doing here. One so obviously young and inexperienced, especially.

_It's a long way from Silvermoon._

If anything, Tyrion wished she were older. The possibility of her death seemed unfair at this age.

They traveled for a short while longer, the sun passing further down the sky, and Tyrion took the time to stretch in the new heat. The temperature was becoming comfortable now, as the snow melted and gave way to prairies with low mounds.

They stopped near a shallow stream, letting the wheezing kodo rest, and soon the men began unpacking some supplies and refreshing themselves in the cool stream. After a few minutes Dunhas came back, issuing two pieces of bread along with a small jug of what Tyrion presumed to be water.

"Dinner," Dunhas grunted, extending the food and drink through the bars. "We'll be stoppin' here for a bit."

Tyrion took one piece of bread and the jug, leaving Claera to take the remaining piece herself. He returned to his corner, setting the jug by his side, tearing off some bread with his teeth. It went down his dry throat like sand. He took a drink of the water, not realizing how thirsty he was, thinking it tasted good even though it was far too warm. He took a bite, another swig, then for the first time looked towards Claera.

"I take it you don't want this?" Tyrion said, raising the jug.

She glared at him, and, in response, he set the jug down and gave it a strong push, watching as it slid across the floor of the cage all the way to her legs. She stared at it for a moment, then carefully picked it up and took a small drink before putting it down again. She took a small bite of her bread.

_Enjoy your meal, elf, _Tyrion thought. _It might be your last one._

A few minutes later and Claera handed the empty jug to Dunhas through the bars. His hair was soaked from when he evidently washed it in the stream, and he was wearing a wide grin that seemed less-than-inviting with his blackened teeth.

"Either of ya need to use the bushes?" he asked. "I imagine ya both have been fairly uncomfortable back here all day."

Given the fact that all three men were there and ready for trouble made an escape during this time impossible. It was much better - and less risky - to do it during the night when Dunhas thought they'd be groggy from sleep. Besides, the darkness would provide the cover he'd need to escape.

Claera nodded yes. Tyrion muttered, "I'll be fine."

Cautiously, Dunhas unlocked the cage and escorted Claera away, his free hand warily holding a sword that he had not seen before - the elf's sword, Tyrion guessed. The other two locked the cage and followed him, both wielding their rusted weapons loosely at their sides.

When they returned Dunhas quickly took Claera back to the cage, sheathing his sword and locking her back in. She sat down with a sigh on the same side of the cage as Tyrion, pulling her knees up and hugging them as she stared blankly at the cage floor.

Tyrion's mind had already gone back to the plan for the night when he heard a deep, crashing noise from behind him. He whirled around, eyes darting this way and that, searching. He vaguely heard one of the men behind him move as well, now talking hurriedly to Dunhas.

"You hear that, sir? What was that?" Dunhas shushed the man with a wave of his hand, trying to listen.

Tyrion squinted his green-blue eyes, trying to get a decent view down the path. He was unsure of which direction the sound had come from - maybe it wasn't on the path at all, but down the stream?

Claera lifted her head from his shoulder, shocked that she'd passed out on it. "W…what? When did I…?"

"Quiet," said Tyrion. Her mouth hung open for a moment.

She burst into a flurry of words."Dontyoutellmetobequiet! You'rejustafilthyhuyman,IcantalkwheneverIwant!WhyamIevenhere,—"

There came another rustling of the bushes. She stopped screaming. Claera's ears shifted, prickling and searching for the sound.

Tyrion moved to the other side of the cage, trying to look down that way, but found that his view was partially obscured by stocks of supplies. His hand slipped unconsciously to his side before he realized a sword no longer hung there.

Dunhas and his men had returned to the front of the cart - one man looking nervously in all directions while Dunhas and the last man prepared to leave. Even the Kodo was becoming restless, shifting uneasily in its harness as its head turned from side to side.

Dunhas seemed supremely unconcerned. He either had not heard the noise, or did not find it threatening.

Tyrion, however, did.

A memory flashed in front of his eyes from his childhood. He was still a baby, and his stepfather, Jonathan Firen, was commanded by King Terenas to ride south from Lordaeron to Ironforge in a covered wagon so that Tyrion, along with the Menethil lineage, would be safe. He'd heard the same throaty bellow once on that trip, and it came from an Orc.

Granted, the one he had heard now was far enough away, but where there was one Orc, there were thirty more. The Arathi Highlands, he knew, had a couple of roaming ogres and Orcs, and if this backwoods path led past one of their encampments...

"What is it?" the Blood-elf repeated with more urgency.

Tyrion was about to move away again when she grabbed his arm. He turned, enraged, and she quickly let go. "There are Orcs out here," he hissed. "And that sound is an Orc if I ever heard one."

Some of the color left her face. "...Orcs?"

"Yes, Orcs. Aren't they your allies?"

"Technically, yes…" More color drained.

He knew what she was thinking; he could see it in her eyes. They were allies, but they weren't of the same race. They'd take her under their wing for now, "detain" her in a cage, and every single Orc within a two-mile radius would have their way with her that night. Then, after, they'd dump her in Orgrimmar, IF she were lucky.

Tyrion nodded, fighting to stay calm, knowing that the absolute worst place to be during an encounter with Orcs was trapped in a flimsy wooden cage.

"If they come, we stay down," he said as much for himself as for her. He knew it was a futile strategy. Crouching in place would hardly help in cage.

He looked down at her, seeing the fear in her eyes. _And the mighty blood-elf comes to the human when the Orcs come calling,_ he thought bitterly.

He turned away. "We need to get out of here," Tyrion yelled to Dunhas, who was stocking the last of the supplies.

"I've taken this road fifty times," Dunhas called back. "Nothin's ever around here."

Tyrion very much doubted that claim, but remained silent. There was another, louder rumbling shout - this time much closer, and this time a battle roar. Dunhas looked up in shock, the blood draining from his face.

"It is coming from downstream." Tyrion whispered to himself

Dunhas barely acknowledged Tyrion's words, and instead dropped the sack that he was carrying and ordered the other two men to get onto the cart. "We're leavin'," he was saying, his voice on the edge of panic. "Now!"

But even as he spoke, a large, muscular figure peered around the thick trees huddling around the stream - a veiny, square head set atop a hulking body. Tyrion watched as the Orcs's eyes turned towards him, and, with an expression that could only be interpreted as anger and confusion, it let out a bellow.

"Humans!" the Orc rumbled, dragging a thick bearded axe out from behind him.

"Go!" Dunhas shouted, grabbing the kodo's reins and pulling sharply. The kodo began to make great wheezing noises, as though it were gasping for air. It began to sway in its harness, back and forth, and Tyrion grabbed onto the side of the cage to remain steady.

The Orc roared again, this time raising its battleaxe and charging towards them.

Dunhas snapped the reins again. "Go, damn you!" He grabbed an empty bottle from behind him and hurled it at the kodo, who stood frozen in place. One of the men by his side glanced once at the ogre, then at him, and fled from the cart.

"This is bad," Tyrion muttered under his breath. He looked around the cage, trying to find a weapon or an escape or _something_ that would get him away from the ogre. The Orc sprinted towards the cart, spittle and tongue trailing in the wind, running on all fours like a gorilla. Claera had her back against the fence, her bright green eyes wide in fear, her small chest heaving.

The kodo snapped out of its petrified state, and, abruptly, it veered to the right and towards the woods, trying to escape into the trees. The cart groaned and protested as the sheer strength of the struggling kodo forced it to turn - one wheel leaving the ground as the entire cart began to tilt.

"Easy!" Dunhas shrieked, waving his arms into the air as he scrambled to grab hold of something. "Stop-"

Tyrion moved to the back - away from the ogre, holding onto the wall with all his strength. He glanced towards Claera, who was still at his side staring dumbstruck at the Orc. The entire cart began to shake and slide, supplies and crates falling.

"Hold on-" Tyrion screamed through the noise, wrapping his arms around her protectively, and at once the entire cart flipped on its side - the wooden cage that contained them shattering into splinters as it hit the ground. He hit the ground gracelessly, landing on his shoulder, the back of his head bouncing off of a loose board. He groaned as a tower of sacks, crates, and _everything_ toppled over him.


	7. Chapter 7

I appreciate the reviews, guys! Every morning I wake and check my email to see if I have any reviews, and when I find some they truly do brighten my day. Please, keep them coming.

And, to address the comments you left;

Yes, I have read A Game Of Thrones. You might recognize the first name Tyrion, which I first heard there, and yes, I used the first name. I think the name rolls nicely off the tongue, as it is both royal and friendly.

I am going to work on making the POV change a little more clear. Sorry about that.

And, yes, Tyrion is a much humbler soul!

Keep the reviews coming.

-Jakkani

**CHAPTER SEVEN: FINE HEIRS**

Arthas had him pinned to the ground, dangling a glob of spit over Tyrion's mouth.

Tyrion squirmed and thrashed and fought, but couldn't get his brothers muscular form off of him. He was much stronger, much quicker, much heavier, and a lot meaner. Arthas sneered as the glob of saliva and snot dangled over Tyrion's mouth like a pendulum.

Tyrion yelled with all of his might, "Dad!"

His father stomped around the corner not a moment later. He hauled up a surprised Arthas by the collar, and did the same for Tyrion, holding them both at arms length with an iron grip. Tyrion punched wildly in Arthas's direction, and Arthas did the same, but their tiny arms couldn't reach each other.

"Boys!" He barked, "BOYS! STOP FIGHTING!"

Something in his tone calmed them. They stopped swinging wildly, instead staring with hatred at each other.

"Imagine what your mother would think. Her two little boys fighting over a girl? And at such a young age?" He laughing heartily, kneeling between the two.

"But really, you are brothers. If you're going to fight someone, at least don't fight family." He paused for a moment, looking into their beet-red faces. Then, he burst into a great smile, ruffling their hair.

"Arthas, you are bigger than most boys your age, you have the looks of a lord, and you have the persistence of a damned school teacher." He chuckled before continuing, "And Tyrion, you possess the will of a lion and the kind heart of a priest. Hah! You will both make fine heirs, I think." They were both calmed visibly by every word their father said. He clapped them both on the shoulder, stood, and walked out, his bright blue cloak flowing behind him.

His gravely voice flowing back down the hall as he strolled. "Ah, yes. Fine heirs, fine heirs."

Consciousness doused him like a bucket of water.

His eyes shot open, gazing around at the crumpled, splintered remains of something wooden. _A cart?_

Tyrion, dazed, dragged his way out of the broken remnants of the cage, pulling himself over the crates before kneeling behind the shattered back half of the cart. He peered around it, slowly gathering his wits, and saw that the Orc was still preoccupied with stomping the cart and its contents into dust. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the forest was less than a stone's throw away, and grinned.

_Who needs a Blood-elf to help you escape when you can have an Orc?_

Her image suddenly popped into his mind. _Claera._

He looked around curiously, wondering where she had gone, and then saw her still struggling underneath a particularly heavy piece of board that had fell across her legs when the cart tipped over. Her right leg was bent at an odd angle, and she was clawing at the ground in an attempt to drag herself away from the towering Orc nearby. It would not be long before the creature turned its attention towards her and noticed her existence.

"Help!" he saw her mouth the words, silently, so as not to alert the Orc eight feet away.

Tyrion did not move. He watched her squirm - knowing that he needed to escape alive more than he needed to save her life, and that the simple fact that an Orc interfered did not change much.

_This only is what she deserves. She would do the same to you, remember?_

That was not entirely true. He _suspected_ she was going to do the same - not _knew__._ But regardless of what she had intended, it bothered him that she would die helpless due to circumstances beyond her control.

_You are Alliance. She is not. Don't stick your neck out for her._

_**This has nothing to do with the Alliance. **_

A moment passed, and, now fully resolved, he turned his back on her and moved to escape into the forest. It bothered him - but when the sun set, she was a blood-elf, and that was what mattered. He would not risk his teeth for some arrogant Blood-elf. Tyrion would do what humans did best - live and let die. And if she did the dying part, well, that was her problem.

Quietly, and not looking back, he crawled towards the forest, hearing the grunts and roars of the Orc as it smashed the cart to bits.

"Help!" he heard the Blood-elf say again - this time with her voice. Almost loud enough to attract the attention of the Orc.

Tyrion ignored her, saying nothing in response. There was nothing he needed to say he kept stomping off.

Her voice called out again - and this time he froze. "Tyrion!"

His eyes widened. He whirled around, surprised, recalling that he had only given her his name once, and that he had originally thought she was not even listening. It had a bizarre effect on him, as though she had struck a personal cord in him, and he looked at her quizzically. The Blood-elf had not moved from her position under the debris, and her arm was extended, as though reaching for him, and her eyes pleaded. A tear formed and fell down her cheek.

"Please..." He saw her say. Tyrion did not hear her but saw her lips move and knew what she meant. He glanced back at the forest, then back to her, struggling to make a decision.

_Don't do this, _he warned himself. _This is an elf! A Blood Elf!_

His fathers voice echoed in his mind, like a ghosts whisper: _….The kind heart of a priest…_

Tyrion lowered his head, quelling the protests in his mind, and then raised it again - staring directly at the Blood-elf. Whether it was the result of her using his name, her desperate pleas, or something else entirely, Tyrion had no idea, but he had wrapped his mind around one simple concept.

He would not let that Blood-elf die here.

He crept back to the cage, taking care to stay out of the sight of the Orc, hoping that he was not doing something that he would later regret. When Tyrion reached her, he realized that she was worse-off than he originally believed, and that her right leg was moist with a dark red liquid.

He felt her hand on his shoulder as he pulled away the boards, trying to avoid making any unnecessary noise. While an Orc's eyesight was terrible compared to humans, its hearing was not, and whether this one would take any interest in pounding them both into oblivion was unclear.

But so far the Orc had not seen them yet, and Tyrion could only hope that this would continue.

Once she was free from the boards, he knelt over her legs to examine them, seeing that while the left one was not in too bad of shape, the right would require some attention. She gasped when he touched her, and there was a long gash where the board had evidently first fallen.

She was in no position to walk anywhere - much less run.

There was a furious roar and Tyrion turned to see that the Orc had finally become bored with the front half of the cart and was now coming back for them. His eyes went wide, and without hesitating he lifted her from the cage and fled - glancing once over his shoulder to see that the Orc was indeed giving chase, as well as a dozen other Orcs. He felt the Blood-elf's arms go around his neck to hold on as he leaped from the path and into the foliage. He dared a quick look down at her, and she was nearly unconscious, her lips parted slightly. He ran faster than he ever had before, raw adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Lok' Tar Ogar!" The Orc bellowed again, pausing at the fringes of the thick forest. It thrust its head out between two trees and snuffed the air, as though trying to smell out its prey, to no avail. The other Orcs ran up to their brother, waiting for his command. He continued sniffing, then turned and shrugged. The crowd of Orcs dropped their axes, sighed, threw their hands up in the air, or just plain walked away with disappointment.

Two of the Orcs chatted quietly in Orcish as they walked away. "I told him not to say Lok'Tar Ogar unless we were going to be actually fighting, god dammit. I was in the middle of a shower! I have about a months worth of goddamn butt sweat…It's kind of hard showering when you're in the middle of the fucking jungle, unless you want to towel off with a leaf."

"You're lucky. I was halfway through a good piss when I heard the call." The Orc looked down at his piss stained breeches.

They both sighed in unison. It was hard being an Orc.

Tyrion and Claera, on the other hand, were long gone, sprinting through the bushes and vines, not looking back. He felt her grip tighten around his neck as he pushed his way through a particularly dense thicket of bramble, and, once they were through, he slowed his pace.

"T-t-thank you," she said faintly, and Tyrion, breathing heavily, looked down at her again. Blood was running fast down her legs, and her luminous eyes - normally bright and glowing - were dimming rapidly.

She would not survive unless he tended her wounds, and Tyrion did not pull her away from the Orc only so that she would bleed to death in the middle of the forest. He found a small clearing and set her down, taking care to move any rocks or jagged sticks away.

"You aren't lookin' too good," Tyrion said, taking a moment to more carefully examine the deep gash on her right leg. He frowned.

Tyrion had not been trained as a healer. Being raised around castle walls with capable medics a hundred feet away made such knowledge useless to him. He knew simple rules, and simple remedies. He knew that the amount of blood freely flowing from her wound was a bad thing, and that he would need to apply some sort of pressure in order for it to stop.

He had no material, though. What would he wrap the wound with?

Her eyes followed him, her lips moving as she tried to speak. Her voice was soft and weak, and he could barely hear her.

"Don't talk," Tyrion said gruffly.

He made sure the wound was free of any splinters or debris. He could feel tremors of pain run through her as he did so. Tyrion closely inspected the wound, trying to remember basic remedies for healing pastes. It wasn't completely shattered, or even broken, just fractured. The skin itself was torn slightly, but elves had better regeneration than humans as far as he knew. She would definitely need to be off that leg for a while.

He went over to inspect her other leg, seeing if there was anything that he had missed.

Again, he noticed her mumbling something, and, slightly irritated, moved closer to her head.

_What is so damn important?_

"You're wasting your energy, I know that much," Tyrion said sharply. He was not going to permit her to die - not after what he risked. "I can't hear you, anyways."

A thought flashed in his mind. What if the Orcs followed them? Or, worse, what if they got Troll headhunters to sniff them out? He glanced around.

She tried to speak again, looking meaningfully at him. Sighing, Tyrion lowered his ear to her mouth, straining to listen.

"T…thank you. You are…my savior…" Tyrion heard her say. He lifted his head again, frowning. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that this elf had lost her sanity the moment she fell off that cart. He didn't think that any of the boxes that fell were quite that heavy, though...

"Claera," he repeated slowly, and she nodded, as though this were supremely important. He watched her for another moment, unsure what to make of her.

Finally he said, with a lords commanding tone, "Rest now."

And, without protest, she did.


	8. Chapter 8

Most people would stop writing after a while for no particular reason.

I promise all of you, I won't do that as long as I continue to receive reviews. : )

-Jakkani

**Chapter 8: Tyrion**

Rock.

Smooth, shiny rock.

Wait, no. _That is the ceiling._ Am _I_ _in a cave?_

_What happened?_

Claera's head swam, her legs ached, and every part of her body felt sore. Slowly, she brought up her hand to rub her forehead, though other than that she did not move. Moving was hard.

She turned her head to the beams of light from the campfire. She quickly looked away and tried to roll over in order to get away from the painful rays. Claera gasped as a sharp pang shot through her leg as she moved, and she quickly grew still, not wanting to disturb it further. The light was far too bright, even though in reality the campfire was probably just a few small smoldering embers. Outside, rain fell silently, causing the forest outside to sway and hush quietly. She rolled back over and tried to fall back asleep; she was far too comfortable to get up now. Whatever work or duty she had to do, she would do it later. She closed her eyes and nuzzled against herself.

_Wait, what DO I have to do today? _

She paused.

_Where am I?_

Suddenly, a thousand thousand questions flooded her mind like a wave as all of the scenes from the previous day flashed and died in a split second. The men - the orc - the cart. Claera pressed her hand on her forehead, trying to will the memories to stop, her head beginning to pound from the onslaught. But it did not stop.

An image of her lying underneath the shattered cage appeared in her mind, and, next, her calling the human - not the human, but Tyrion - to come back. How she could recall his name she did not know.

Then another memory surfaced, and it seemed like it was from a long time ago though it had only been two days.

"My name is Tyrion," he had said.

Her reply was all too clear in her mind. Claera grimaced inwardly. "That's none of your concern, _Human._"

_Human._ It had been that human that rescued her, even though he had every reason not to. It was a strange twist of irony, especially when she had once thought Tyrion would kill her the moment he had the chance.

Claera frowned as she realized. Why did he save her?

Everything that she knew about humans indicated that they were self-serving savages. Her mother, her teachers, and most books all spoke of human savagery, and until now she had no reason to doubt it. Indeed, they were very rarely wrong, and it was ridiculous to assume that humans had earned their reputation by accident.

Claera rested for another moment, thinking back to the few exchanges that she had with Tyrion, unable to find a satisfactory response to her question. She simply did not know enough - and it would be naive for her to assume that it was sheer benevolence on Tyrion's part that led him to save her from death.

In fact, a cynical part of her mind suspected that Tyrion simply had more sinister plans for her, and that he had only saved her in order to take her back to his warchief - alive and ready for interrogation. Claera suppressed that line of thought - not willing and not wanting to recognize where that reality might lead.

But her cynical side would not so easily be deterred. Her mind drifted again, this time to a conversation she had with her mother - just before leaving Silvermoon.

"Stand closer, Claera," her mother began, framing her daughter's face with her hands and bringing it down to where she could see. She was close to complete blindness, and Claera knew that her mother could barely see anything but vague shapes - even less, at a distance. "You know what I think of your choice to fight for the Horde..."

"Yes," Claera said in a whisper. It was always difficult seeing her mother this way - it seemed like the blindness had struck her with merciless speed.

"Then listen to me this once," she continued, her voice still carrying its strong tones. "I know you never take my advice, but take this. Please, just this."

It took Claera a moment to realize her mother was waiting for a response. "I will," she said, taking her mother's hand in hers, finding it hard to speak clearly. It was not supposed to be this difficult.

Her mother was never one to speak quietly, but the amount of conviction and strength that entered her voice surprised even Claera. "Then stay away from the fighting. The Alliance are _monsters_, Claera. They are our enemies, and I believe they always will be until we wipe every last one off the continent. I do not want my- my only daughter - my only child - to put her life in more danger than what is necessary."

"Not all this is about fighting," she continued. "Work in the city, forwarding supplies to the military encampments, or _something_ that doesn't put you too close to the Alliance." She took her hand and ran it down the side of Claera's face, as though trying to memorize it before she left. "They are liars, murderers, traitors, and thieves, and are not above doing even the most vile of things to you. Stay away from them, and do not let yourself fall into a position where you must fight them. The deaths of a hundred Humans are not worth risking your life..."

_I'm sorry, mother, _Claera presently thought to herself. She had risked herself by taking that scouting mission and her mother's fears had been realized.

But the words were all too clear. The Alliance were evil. She could not trust the Alliance. The Alliance were the enemy.

_And the evil Alliance saved your life._

_Don't take it at face value,_ the cynical voice countered.

Feeling a little bit better, Claera opened her eyes again, this time to get an idea of where she was. Last she remembered, she was in a small clearing, surrounded by foliage, Tyrion hovering over her as he bandaged the open wound on her leg, his green eyes a mixture of confusion and fear. Now she was on a bed of mixed moss and ferns, laying on a particularly flat rock, a rock wall behind her and a cave entrance at the front.

She was, obviously, in a cave; but it didn't have the moss or bugs that most caves had. It was just that, a cave; dry and hard as cave could be. Her leg was propped up in an attempt to keep the bandage and her wound from lying on the rocky floor.

_Wait, bandage? When had that happened?_

Tyrion was nowhere to be seen, and Claera fleetingly wondered if he abandoned her. But what would he leave her to die after going to the trouble of rescuing her? She could barely move her right leg, definitely could not walk, and was in no position to care for herself.

It disturbed her to realize that her life was now - whether she like it or not - dependent on Tyrion. Claera was not sure how long it would be before she could move comfortably again, and could only hope that the amount of time she would have to rely on the Human was short.

Suddenly she heard noises from beyond the entrance of the cave – the bushes and trees outside rustling. Then, she heard grunts and cursing in Common. Claera reached to her side and felt a chill of vulnerability as she realized that she was unarmed and defenseless. She stared towards the bushes expectantly, unsure of what she would do if danger burst through but knowing that somehow she would fight.

"Damn you," someone grunted. A troll. It took her a while to translate and understand the foreign language.

Her mind flashed back to Dunhas and the smugglers and she wondered if it was them again, trying to reclaim their prisoners. Claera was not about to let them. She was not going to return to the cage - not again. The sound was becoming louder, and was clearly approaching her cave entrance. She waited, every muscle in her body tense. Maybe they'd just pass.

Two figures came into the entrance- but not two humans. One was a towering and furious human who was holding a struggling troll by his neck. She leaned away as Tyrion slammed the troll into the tree, the troll's feet kicking wildly almost a foot off the ground, his arms flailing, but to no avail. His face was bruised and bloody, and his clothes torn in what obviously had been quite a fight. For his part, Tyrion was bleeding along his arm and was cut at several other places, but it was clear that the troll had fared worse.

The troll seemed leaner than even Tyrion, but was a bit taller than him.

_How had Tyrion managed to catch a Troll unawares? And how could he lift him like that?_

Claera was at a loss for words. "What- Who is-"

Tyrion turned towards her, grinning wildly. "Dinner."

She stared at him wearing an expression of pure horror, her tiny neck forming a double chin.

Tyrion snorted in half-hidden laughter and returned his attention to the troll, who seemed to struggle even more violently at the human's response. He gagged and made sputtering sounds behind his tusks.

Claera, however, could not keep her mouth from sagging open. _Surely he's not serious._

"Found this one in the woods," Tyrion tightened his grip on the troll's throat. The troll got the message and quickly grew still, his eyes darting rapidly between the Human and Claera. "He tried to kill me. He didn't manage to."

"So why bring him back here?" she asked slowly, too shocked to take her eyes off the troll.

"I don't know where we are, exactly, " Tyrion said. "_He_-" Tyrion tightened his grip for emphasis and the troll grunted. "-does know where we are. He can tell us where to go."

Claera remained silent, still looking at the troll, seeing more confidence and cockiness than one would expect from someone in his position. Something was wrong. She was not sure if he would - or _could_ - give them the information they needed.

"This troll won't speak to me, though," Tyrion said. "I am Alliance." He turned pointedly to her. "But you are Horde."

She saw him turn and understood the unspoken message. The troll was, well, a troll. Tyrion was a human. The troll might be more open to speaking with someone whose race he was not outright hostile with.

"Tyrion, could you let him down please?" Claera said.

Tyrion hesitated, and then released. The troll collapsed to the ground, gasping, staring up at the human and then back to her. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

Tyrion rubbed his arms, his face contorted in what could be pain. She knew that he had overexerted himself in order to scare the troll.

"Dunhas wood' find dis' to be mighty interesting," the troll said, his throat strained, though he still managed to put on a twisted sort of grin. "A human an' an elf runnin' out here...ain't data pretty sight." So he was one of Dunhas's men.

"Where are we?" Claera asked flatly, meeting the troll's gaze.

The troll seemed put off by her bluntness. Quickly he recovered, his old grin sliding back on. "Stranglethorn, o' course."

Tyrion's and Claera's faces paled immediately. _That…he's lying._

"You're lying."

"Me not lyin'."

_How could they be all the way in Stranglethorn? Had they traveled longer than they thought?_

"How do we return to the main road?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. It was clear that the troll preferred to play games.

He snorted. "Do ah' look like a map?"

"We can make this easy, difficult, or bloody," Claera said, echoing the words that Dunhas used when he originally captured her. It had the desired effect - the troll's face paled considerably. "Which would you have it?"

Slowly, the troll climbed to his feet, looking nervously between her and Tyrion. It was an expression unlike the confidence-cum-arrogance that he wore only moments ago. Tyrion had not moved, his face set like stone as he watched the troll move.

"We not far from da main road," the troll said finally, his forehead becoming slick with sweat - though not necessarily from the heat. "Dunhas always liked usin' dat little path because it more or less followed da' main one, it just wasn't used by Horde or Alliance patrols." A wry grin crossed his face. "But dat is because it passes through Orc territory, and not Horde-Orc territory. Dees' Orcs be feral, like some o' da trolls. It ain't safe. Only used by us, as far as ah know."

"So where are we?" Claera asked. Something about this was wrong. He was speaking much too easily, as though he was trying to buy time for something. Or waiting.

"Just a bit south of da main road," he continued. His eyes flickered towards Tyrion and he shifted his weight onto one foot. "Trek north for ah short while and you'll run right into dat' road."

Claera felt the hairs on her neck stand up, but, glancing at Tyrion, it was clear that the human did not sense anything amiss. He was now leaning casually against the cave walls, watching the proceedings with intense interest, rubbing his arms.

Suddenly the troll folded his hands behind his back and she saw it - a glint of metal in a hidden sheath behind his leg. Her eyes went wide, though she quickly recovered. If she spoke aloud, the troll might panic and make a reckless lunge.

"How long of a walk is it?" she asked, wanting to keep him talking. She kept glancing at Tyrion, trying to catch his eye. She couldn't. He flipped his hair casually.

"Not long," he said simply, no longer looking at her.

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a new question. "Are there a lot of, err, trees?"

Tyrion glanced at her quizzically, as though to say, "What sort of question is that?" This gave Claera her opportunity. She meaningfully stared at him, then down to the troll's leg. She knew time was running short, and soon it would be clear to the troll that his hidden dagger had been discovered.

"Trees..." the troll said, raising one eyebrow at her. "Well..." His hand drifted almost casually to his leg as he shrugged.

Tyrion looked at her, then back at the troll, his eyes widening, and then, as though with sudden realization, stiffened and raised his arms as though he was about to grab the troll's neck again.

At that same moment, however, the troll drew a long, thin blade from his hidden pocket, turning to thrust it into the human's stomach. Instead, Tyrion grabbed the hilt as the knife flew towards him, crushing the trolls hand. The troll cried out, releasing the dagger, and Tyrion quickly knocked it aside. He turned his attention back to the troll's neck, which he grabbed, lifted, and then hurled backwards against the rock. This time, his strength came from his intense anger, an anger she had yet to witness.

The troll crumpled to the ground, groaning, and Claera saw his eyes graze over the clearing in search of his dagger. She found it first and quickly snatched it, holding it close to her side in case the smuggler came after her.

However, the troll got no such chance. Tyrion lifted him yet again; his face an expression of pure rage, and held him in the air for a moment. The troll, gathering some of his wits, lashed out with his tusk and tried to gouge the Human's eye, causing Tyrion to howl with pain as it stabbed the space above his right eye, causing him to slacken his grip. The troll, seizing his opportunity, threw a punch underneath Tyrion's chin and squirmed out of his hold - already out of the human's grasp by the time Tyrion recovered.

Tyrion whirled, looking ready to take off in pursuit of the smuggler, but stopped just before going through the bushes. He looked towards her, and it was obvious that there was some sort of mental struggle going on in his mind.

"There are two more than him out there," Tyrion said finally. "And they will know where we are soon enough. We need to leave."

He moved towards her and she drew the knife that the troll had dropped during the fight. Tyrion froze, watching her keenly, until she turned the dagger around and offered him the handle.

Tyrion nodded, accepting it, and then knelt over her wounded leg. He carefully peeled back the bandage and she grimaced at the stinging sensation it caused. Claera watched as he briefly inspected it, and, evidently finding it to his liking, drew a handful of what appeared to be crushed herbs from a pouch on his side. With great care he set them onto the gash, and then replaced the bandage.

"For healing," he said roughly, turning away. The muscles in his arms, neck and back seemed slightly larger after his encounter. He turned away, strolling out of the cave, still rubbing his arms.

_He is a lot stronger than he looks._

Claera nodded. "Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

I appreciate the reviews, guys! Keep em' coming : )

-Jakkani

**CHAPTER TEN: BOOTY BAY**

"We're going to have to head into town." He sighed heavily as he walked, looking over at her. Claera nodded in agreement, her messy hair falling about her face as she did so.

_Unfortunately, he is right._ _Living in Stranglethorn, away from Horde and Alliance eyes, worked for a while... I somehow managed to put my head together with this…human…and survive. But...but we really can't do this forever. _

As they walked down the dirt path to Booty Bay, Claera glanced down at her leg. The dull, throbbing pain returned as soon as she looked at it- Traveling through the rugged jungle had its toll on her at first, but she gradually managed to tolerate her wound after leaving their cave. She didn't even feel it anymore unless she thought about it.

_And...I suppose I tolerate Tyrion a little more as well. To be honest, I think I do not consider him to be my absolute worst enemy._

Claera realized that he was walking ahead of her, impatient with her slow strut.

_Still, he is an ignorant swine. _

Her thoughts turned to Tyrion as she walked faster to catch up; he had been oddly silent since the brush with the Orcs. It grew very unsettling over time, even to Claera. The jungle had begun to show in him as well; in only a week or so, his hands had gone from smooth to slightly callused. His upper body swelled somewhat, and what little muscle he had was now actually visible. The way he walked, the way he slept, it all changed dramatically since she met him.

His voice broke her thoughts. "We need work. " He yelled from ahead, "We need work, and we need to buy a ticket to Stormwind. Or Ironforge, perhaps…"

She flinched mentally. It was the first word that he'd said for hours.

"Oh, uh, and wherever you're going." He waved without looking back, gesturing for her to hurry.

"I am going back to Silvermoon, fool," she snapped suddenly, speed walking to his side. "Where the hell else would I be going?"

He shook his head and continued walking without a response. She felt a pang of regret for her words, but she would never admit it. They both settled into a comfortable silence as they walked, and continued in that fashion for hours.

0000000000

Gradually, untamed jungle and bright, prickly plants gave way to a rocky path. That rocky path made way to a dirt road, and that dirt road gave way to the entrance of Booty Bay.

He walked after, brushing himself off so as to look less poor than he was. The goblins stood at either side of the yawning wooden entrance clutching their rifles, ever vigilant, eyeing them as they approached.

"What's your business, friend?" The squeaky shrilled at them as they neared. The goblins gripped their blunderbusses and held them at the ready, but didn't train them on Tyrion and Claera.

Claera looked over at Tyrion and crossed her arms, waiting for him to make an excuse.

"Oh, uh, we're just here looking for work." He sputtered out quickly.

"Hmm." The goblin moved closer, looking up and eyeing him down the length of his nose.

"Okay, then. But you better watch yourself, stranger." He waved them past and wobbled back to his post on his short, stunted legs.

Clara started off again, and Tyrion followed.

They crossed through the dank, dimly lit cave in silence, the smell of sea and sweat invading their nostrils. It only got stronger as they continued, ever approaching the light at the end of the tunnel.

They crossed three people walking in, two trolls and one tauren with an eye patch. They all smelled of grog and sweat, and walked with a heavy gait, swords clanging at their hips as they walked. They didn't even glance at the human prince and the blood elf soldier as they passed.

As Claera walked briskly ahead of him, Tyrion's eye wandered down the small of her back to her lower half. His eye was drawn to the shape of her butt like a magnet, her muscle moving like pistols beneath the surface. She didn't have any curves to her upper body; she was mostly skin and bone. However, she still had an excuse for hips. Tyrion blew a bang of hair out of his eyes in frustration. _When did my hair get this long?_

They finally crossed out of the cave and into the blinding sunlight. Tyrion and Claera held up their arms to block the piercing sunlight. When his eyes finally adjusted, Tyrion couldn't believe what he saw.

It was an exceptionally massive dock, lined with titan sized ships. Hundreds of men and women strolled the docks of varying shapes, sizes, and races, some carrying crates, some just strolling. Goblins walked the docks as well, guns in hand, eyes on the lookout for any trouble. Heavy sea water could be smelled on the breeze, as if it were about to rain heavily.

_I've heard of Booty Bay…but…_

It was bigger, even, than the place he used to call home.

More and more people pushed past them, bumping shoulders as they did so. Every seemed to have a place to be, and something to do, except him and Claera.

_Orcs, trolls, tauren, dwarves, goblins, humans, gnomes…I've never seen this many races in one place…_

Remembering Claera, he spared a glance in her direction. She had the same look on her face for just an instant, but it was quickly covered by the emotionless mask that she always had on.

_These kind of people annoy me. _He sighed. Out of all the people in the world to travel with, why did it have to be this woman?

Claera turned sharply, as if sensing his thoughts, her moonlit eyes staring into his.

Tyrion quickly grew uncomfortable with the stare. "What?" he barked.

"We can't stand here all day. We need to find work."

"I know that. I wa-"

"Excuse me, sir," said a gravelly voice in the crowd, "Did you say that you were lookin' for work?" Both Tyrion and Claera turned, looking for the source of the voice.

In the crowd stood a bearded Draenei male. He was at least seven feet tall, and as muscular as they come; he dressed the same as most of the commoners, with typical mariners clothing.

"Uh….yes…", stumbled Tyrion. The Draenei frowned, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

Claera did for him."We're looking for anything that will net us some gold. I can work a net and a knife, if you need me to work your boat. I'm also pretty good with a hammer." The Draenei nodded and turned to Tyrion, waiting for a response, twiddling his great beard with one finger.

"Well. I can…I know a couple languages."

"Hmm. Really, now." He stroked his chin for a moment, as if considering. People were starting to get annoyed with them, standing directly in the entrance to Booty Bay.

"No, I think I have something else in mind…" He reached down.

He pulled on the revolver hanging from his hip, spinning and flipping it around his finger. He stopped spinning it, the pistol pointing straight down at the floor. "Do you know how to handle one of these?"

He flipped it and caught it by the barrel, handing it to Tyrion grip first.

Tyrion double chinned.


	10. Chapter 10

I just realized I skipped a chapter. Please ignore this discrepancy until I can fix it. Also, I enjoy the reviews. They are what keep inspiring me to write.

-NetherscreamNordune

**Chapter Eleven: Maxwell**

His gloved fingers peeled the crisp sheet of paper off the wall, frowning at the image that was hastily drawn on. It seemed to be a young human boy, with blonde hair.

_Interesting. Not the usual muscular Orc, or drug crazed Troll… _

His undead eyes wandered over the features of the face drawn on the tattered paper, memorizing them. The boy had the thin face of a prince, beautiful almost. Then, his eyes wandered down to the bottom of the sheet, and read:

"Tyrion Menethil, escaped slave. Wanted by the Horde or the Alliance. Two hundred gold alive, one hundred dead."

"_Menethil"…so he is of royal blood. And young, too. This will be easy money...The problem will be finding him without someone else getting to him first. That would be quite…annoying._

Two hundred gold was hardly enough for a live slave, but it didn't matter. He wasn't in it for the money anymore. He grimaced behind his tattered face wrap. He could feel his yellow teeth poking through the rotting skin of his jaw. He carefully folded the bounty sheet and stuffed it in his trouser pocket, turning away. He began towards the gate of Grom Gol to collect his mount and then be on his way.

A light rain began to fall, and quickly grew to a downpour as he neared the front of town. There were no guards on post tonight, and he could hear them partying in the tavern from one hundred feet away. Some sort of holiday, maybe.

Maxwell could no longer feel the rain's cold or the sun's heat since his death. He lost his sense of touch, as well as his devilishly good looks. They rotted away over time, and after a while he began to wrap most of his head and his limbs in tattered cloth.

He was not bothered by the rain. In fact, he loved the way that rain covered his tracks and washed away the dried blood on his blade and his clothes. His rusted blade, as long and as ancient as he, clanked on his back as he walked. Still, the familiar weight of the claymore was comforting.

Maxwell stopped, his black cloak ruffling with the wind. He'd heard something, he was sure.

Someone was behind him . "You. Stop where you are, eye blight."

Maxwell turned to face him. It was a Blood Elf, sword drawn and pointed at the ground. He was not much taller than he, and didn't seem much stronger. Maxwell grinned. He'd seen those features before. Still, he pretended not to know. It was more fun that way. He put on his best confused face.

"Who…me? Is there a problem, sir?"

The Blood Elf walked towards him with a royal strut, lifting his sword slightly. "You're damn right there is a problem. You killed my brother for a damn gold piece. I saw you with my own two eyes." His voice was wavering slightly, as if he were trying very hard to control of himself.

"I-I-I'm afraid…"The undead stuttered. "I'm afraid I do not recall." He glanced around. No guards were in sight.

"You do not have to recall." The Blood Elf held his blade with a fencing stance, and then rushed him, lunging for his heart with the thin rapier. Maxwell quickly stepped to the side, dodging as if it were second nature, and wrapped his hand around the Blood Elf's wrist. The Blood Elf struggled for a moment, twisting and turning, trying to pull his right hand out of Maxwell's grip.

Maxwell stood there, holding him with an iron grip, grinning through the torn cheek skin. Then, Maxwell jabbed four fingers into the Blood Elf's side with pinpoint precision, and then twisted it violently. The Blood Elf froze, every muscle in his body tensing. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to move.

Maxwell stepped back with a sigh, shaking his head as he pulled the entire claymore from his back. Maxwell fought hard to conceal the moan of pleasure that vibrated from the base of his throat, his toes flexing with the raw ecstasy.

_So good…this adrenaline…this raw pleasure… it's the only thing that opens my veins…_

It was the only thing he felt anymore.

The Blood Elf yelled behind his clenched teeth for help, but no one could hear him over the raging storm. His yelling in desperation brought a pang of pleasure to Maxwell, like a lovers touch after orgasm.

Maxwell pulled a small knife from his hidden ankle sheath and etched a tally onto his claymore blade. That would make thirty deaths, all of them righteous.

He sheathed the knife as simply as if he were putting away a pen. He turned back to the Blood Elf he had paralyzed, lifting the sword above his head and keeping it there with great effort."Do you know what your sin is?"

The Blood Elf looked up at the blade, his eyes widening in panic. He muttered something behind his clenched teeth, all composure completely lost. He was a panicking man trapped in his own paralyzed body.

"Your sin is pride.", he sighed. Maxwell brought the blade down with all of his force.


	11. Chapter 11

Hello everyone, sorry for the long overdue update. I will continue to update regularly from now on, now that Christmas break has begun. Leave reviews, please—they are what keep me writing. And yes, to clear up any confusion, the Draenei from two chapters ago IS Frejard.

10 points for anyone who can guess who Frejard was modeled after.

-NetherscreamNordune

**CHAPTER TWELVE: BIG IRON**

Captain Frejard set the pawn down on the chess board. "Check." He sat back in his rickety wooden chair and smiled behind his flowing beard. His Draenei tentacles were tied back in a sort of ponytail. He wore simple red working clothes, with heavy leather gloves and boots.

The bards that played in the tavern switched to a different, more upbeat tune. Everyone around the tavern began tapping their feet and slamming their mugs to the beat, singing along drunkenly and off tune. Claera scratched her chin, pretending to consider possible moves. In reality, she already was twenty steps ahead of him. She lifted her king.

A voice bellowed above the crowd and the music. "I say we have a toast, mates!" Most movement stopped. The man speaking was barely clothed, wearing only shorts and a sword. He was a young man with leathery, sunburnt skin. His hair was matted and tangled like seaweed, and his teeth were rotted to the core.

"To the Southsea Pirates! Aye aye!" He raised his mug of ale. Everyone else around the tavern, even the bartender, raised their mugs as well. He took a deep swig, and the tavern commoners followed. The bards went back to playing their music, and chatter began to spring up again.

Claera finally sat down her king, but Captain Frejard was already pushing his way through the crowd towards the bar. She got up and followed after, anxious to catch him before he messed everything up.

Captain Frejard took a seat at the bar. He flagged down the bartender, who rushed over and waited for his order.

"Rumsey Rum, please." The Draenei captain sat a copper coin on the wooden bar. The bartender snatched it up and hurried off without much more than a quick nod. A drunken human suddenly sat next to him as Frejard waited for his rum. It was the same one who had proposed the toast earlier. He laughed heartily, waiting for the bartender to return.

He seemed to just notice the Draenei captain. He looked at him quizzically, as if trying to solve a riddle.

"Oi, I don't think I saw yew raise a toast." His breath caused Frejard's insides to stir.

"Don't care much for toasts, sir." He didn't even turn to look at the drunkard.

"Yeh…" He kept staring at the side of the Draenei's face. "Say, the Bloodsails wear red. And yer wearin' red. Us Southsea don't care much fer Bloodsails. Why are yew wearing red?"

"It was a good shirt, and on sale for cheap." _This bartender is taking his sweet ass time, isn't he?_

"I hope yew aren't a Bloodsail. They're a bunch o' scum lickin, cowardly, traitorous, individuals that'll fuck anything wit' a hole in it."

Frejard stood from the bar, rising to his full height and balling his fists. "Say that to my face, human."

The drunk stood as well, and walked towards him, so that they was close enough to touch chests. A massive hush fell over the tavern, and everyone looked at them.

He said slowly, "Scum lickin', cowardly individuals. What are yew goin' to do about it?"

Captrain Frejard chuckled under his breath, shaking his mighty head. "I'm not going to do anything. I just wanted you to face me."

The drunkard raised an eyebrow in confusion one instant before he was knocked over the head with a wooden chair. He fell in a crumpled heap on the ground as Claera dropped the wooden chair at her side, looking up at the captain with iron eyes. He whispered under his breath to her, "Now here's the tricky part."

The crowd of the tavern burst into a fury, swelling towards the Draenei and the Blood Elf like an angry mob.

Frejard landed on his ass outside of the bar, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to sit up and clear the stars from his vision. Claera backed out of the bar's door, throwing fists back at the men who tried to follow her. Frejard got to his feet carefully, and cracked his knuckles. Claera backed to his side, holding her fists up in a fisticuffs stance. No guards had noticed them yet—it was midnight, and the dock was poorly guarded. Ten men emerged from the bar of different shapes, sizes, and races, roaring angrily at them.

Frejards' eyes widened. "I think it's time we got the hell out of here." He turned and jogged, Claera turning and following. They dashed into a shadowed alley, glancing over their shoulders as they ran. Thirty men were following them now, at least.

Frejard and Claera got to a dead end—the wall in front of them was far too high to jump. Claera's eyes darted around for anything to climb on, to escape, to run. The mob entered the mouth of the alley, slowly edging in, some holding broken bottles and knives. They got closer, and closer.

Captain Frejard raised his hands in a surrender gesture. "Whoa, now, people. You fixin' to kill us over a minor disagreement?"

A troll in the front of the mob answered with a twisted sneer. "Ya damn right, mon. Gonna skin ya reel gud."

The mob was now within striking distance. Claera was still looking for some type of foothold. The walls were bare, and nothing could be used to boost herself over. They were doomed.

A shot rang out in the air.

The mob froze, looking around in confusion, then back to the mouth of the alley.

Tyrion stood there, along with two of Frejards crew, holding revolvers with barrels as long as their forearms.

Tyrion mustered as much confidence as he could in his voice. "Drop all your gold, and go back to your little tavern, or I will blow a hole in those little skulls of yours."

The crowd shuffled through their pockets and dropped their coins without protest. The only sound was the pitter-patter symphony of coins hitting the floor of the alley. After the coins stopped falling, Tyrion shot once into the air.

More coins dropped.

Frejard called over the crowd, "Sorry to play you all like this, people. My crew has a mighty powerful need to eat." The crowd shuffled towards the entrance of the alley. Tyrion and Frejards crewmembers stepped back carefully, letting them all walk past. They gave them dirty, murderous looks as they left the alley. Tyrion kept the revolver trained on them until they were far gone in the darkness.

Frejard, his crew, and Tyrion hooted, running headfirst towards the gold. Claera smiled in relief, walking towards their loot as well. There had to be at least two hundred gold piled up on the floor of the alley.

Frejard bent over, scooping up the coins and letting them fall between his fingers. "A good, solid heist. This is what I call a good day."

They gathered up the gold in sacks and left Booty Bay in a hurry, to escape before someone came to investigate the gun shot sounds, or before the crowd returned with their own firearms. The half-awake Booty Bay Bruisers gave them curious looks, but none forced them to stop.

Once they were safely out of town, they sat down in the dirt road, emptied out the sacks, counted their coins, and split up their shares. Tyrion and Claera both got 50 each, with Frejard and his crew getting 100.

Frejard beamed behind his mighty beard. "There's enough here to buy a boat for me and my crew! More than enough!"

Tyrion smiled as well, pondering what all he could do with this amount of gold. He stuffed it hastily into his pockets.

_I have enough to buy a place to stay, and I will have enough money to invest in making more money. Maybe buy a stock at the local store?_

However, Claera was silent and emotionless as always. She gathered up her coins and hid them carefully.

Frejard stood with a hearty laugh. "Well, Tyrion, Claera, I guess this is where we part ways? Or would you like to join our crew? You got brains kid, and she's got some serious brawn. "

Tyrion shook his head. "No, Captain Frejard. I'm afraid we have our own agendas to attend to. But if we're in need of more work, I'll be sure to come back to you." He gave Frejard his own smile.

Frejard nodded in agreement. "Remember, lad. Anyone can give you work." He handed Tyrion his own revolver. "But only a gun can help you keep it." Tyrion took the heavy revolver carefully, as if it were a baby, and pushed it into the holster he still had on from earlier.

The sun began to rise in the East.

_Has it really been that long?_

"And you remember, kid. You got a job, Captain Frejard will do it. Don't care much for what it is."

"I'll be sure to remember that, Captain. And thank you for the gun. I'll take good care of it." Frejard turned to Claera, expecting a goodbye. Instead, she simply nodded curtly and turned away, walking back towards Booty Bay. Tyrion wanted to yell at her for being so disrespectful.

Frejard didn't seem affected by it. His crew began gathering up the gold.

"Oh, and lad, take care of that one, too." He pointed up the dirt road at Claera, who was slowly disappearing. "There's a lot of strife in her heart." Tyrion nodded, smiling yet again. "See you later, Captain Frejard."

He clapped Tyrion on the shoulder before turning back to his crew. Tyrion turned, too, jogging to catch up with Claera.


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry again about the lack of updates. The Holidays had me out of town, couldnt type on my desktop. Anyways, here we go again.

Remember, right reviews!

-NetherscreamNordune

**Chapter 12: Wet Dream**

She hated that _meniakaldorae_.

He'd left his clothes all around the room they rented, even her half of the home. She angrily gathered up all of his discarded clothes and garbage in one arm, and stomped upstairs. She slapped the door open and threw the filth into his room.

"If you're going to be a pig, human, at least keep your shit in your own pin!" She stood there in the hallway with balled fists, waiting for him to take the bait and become enraged.

There was no response. She walked into the room, glaring around. There was no sign of Tyrion. She felt a pang of worry.

There he was, hidden underneath the sheets, sprawled out on his bed. She immediately strode over to the foot of the bed and stood there, crossing her arms. She blew a bang of hair out of her eyes.

He still didn't notice she was there.

"Tyrion!", her voice cracked like a whip.

No response.

She grabbed the sheets in a fist and ripped them off the bed.

Tyrion was there, of course. Deeply asleep, his hair messy and untamed, his mouth wide open like a fish gaping for air. But that's not what drew Claera's eye.

His midriff was shaped like a V, naturally drawing her eye to his sex. It was bigger than she assumed it would be- he was probably having a wet stood there in shock for a moment, staring at him. She'd never seen...that before. She turned away, tossing the blanket back on him in disgust.

Tyrion stirred to consciousness,slowly sitting up in his bed, holding his head with one hand. It felt like his brain was still trying to pull the fragments of his thoughts back together. HIs room was flooded with garbage and old clothing. He sighed in frustration-Claera had done that.

Claera.

Claera...

His eyes widened. Second long scenes from his dreams flashed in his mind.

Dilated pupils. Orgasm blush. Clenched teeth. Her riding him like a knight would ride a horse. Her clawing his back, and biting his neck. Her legs squeezing around his midriff, her muscles contracting widly. Her bright pink bottom bouncing on him, juices flowing.

He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his sex stirring, regardless of his will. Tyrion pinched the space between his eyes, trying to compose himself-He felt dirty, lusty, confused, and sick...

He forced himself to stand on wobbly legs, and stumbled over garbage and dirty clothes to the bathing room, closing the door behind himself.

Looking out of his cabin windows, Captain Frejard was pleased with what he saw. His men unpacked cargo onto Booty Bay into the arms of eager tradesmen. He finally had his own ship, and his own crew. What else could he wish for? He sighed with content, inhaling the salty air.

Someone was behind him, and very close.

He spun wildly, just in time to see a blur of steel swinging down at him. He fliched, causing the blade to miss him my a hair's length. The heavy steel slammed into the wood, causing it to splinter. He scrambled sideways, catching a glimpse of his attacker. A man wrapped in tattered cloth, with bright yellow eyes, his claymore covered in rusted blood. He stood there, smiling.

Frejard somehow managed to make it to his desk-He gripped the flintlock revolver he'd left on its surface, and pulled it around to meet the assailant. He aimed the pistol directly at his head.

The assailant pulled his claymore from the wall with one hand. "What? Is that supposed to scare me? Hah. I've been to hell and back, fool."

Frejard steeled himself. "Twenty men have tried to kill me, Forsaken," He said gravely, "and that many men are dead. I'm not afraid to add another to that count." He cocked the hammer on his pistol.

The undead chortled, and a grainy sound erupted from his throat that Frejard interpreted as laughter. " You think I've come to kill you? No, Captain Frejard, I've come to horribly maim you and to question you."

The captain's heart dropped when he heard his own name. This was no ordinary thief or hitman. He could feel the pistol shaking slightly in his grip. "You are a fool. I have thirty men on this ship that will come to my aid once they hear me scream."

"You lie. There were four men on this ship, the other twenty six are selling your precious cargo."

His heart sank into his bowels when he realized he was right. "What do you want to know?"

He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up. It was a crude drawing of a human boy, with the name "Tyrion Menethil" underneath it. "I know you have seen this boy. You will tell me where he is."

"The boy? Hmm. I don't think I will tell you where he is." He fired a round into the assailant. His shoulder exploded, spraying black blood against the walls. The assailant charged him in anger, tackling him before he could fire another round.

They landed on the fine wooden floor, wrestling to get the higher position, fighting furiously. The undead bit into his collarbone deeply, causing blood to spray out of his neck. Frejard grimaced, reaching for the pistol that was knocked out of his grip.

The assailant drew a knife from within the folds of his wrapping, and put its tip to Frejard's cheek.

"I'll cut you a pretty smile, Draenai, unless you tell me what I want to know. This is your last chance."

Frejard cursed himself inwardly for not giving himself bodyguards. "They rented a place in Booty Bay," he stuttered under the knife's edge," they plan on staying there for no more than a week, then going back to their respective lands. Now will you leave me be?"

The undead seemed to consider for a moment. "Hmm...No..." He plunged the dagger into his cheek bone.

Frejard screamed in pain, flailing and kicking, grasping at his face. The Forsaken got to his feet, brushed himself off, gathered up his claymore. He scratched another notch into it with his own nail, adding another to his kill count.

Behind him, Frejard got to his feet. He had his pistol, again. Blood streamed down the left side of his face wildly. Somehow, he managed to speak through his wound. " Last time, I shot to wound. This time, I will shoot to kill."

The undead grimaced behind his face wrap, rested his claymore over his shoulder. "Are you sure about that? Do you want to risk it?"

"I think I will, stranger. And then, I'll throw your ashes into the sea."

The undead shook his head. "Do you know what your sin is, Captain?"

Captain Frejard cocked the hammer on his revolver, and looked down the sights.

"Your sin is greed." The undead charged. Captain Frejard fired.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: There is an easter egg in this chapter. Ten internets to anyone who can find it.

-Jakkani

**Chapter 13: Heaven At Night**

"**Tyrion," **Her voice rang like a bell, "What are you waiting for?"

He sat on the floor with his legs crossed near the disappointingly tiny fireplace, fingering the thin strings of his new lute, pretending he didn't hear her. The notes he played sounded very similar to a zhevra stampede. But he was getting better. Sort of.

He felt the familiar weight of gold coins from their "job" in his pocket still, even after they'd rented out a room and paid for passage to the Eastern Kingdoms- So it was no big thing when he saw this lute lying in a shop keep's window with its price tag tied on neatly.

He had spent his entire day attempting to master that damn instrument. Only fifteen coppers, the soft wooden thing was obviously used-It was missing a peg on the fret board, it was chipped on the side slightly, and someone had etched "Kvothe" on the back with a knife. The missing peg made it nearly worthless, but it was still was something interesting to fill his day with.

"Tyrion," Claera said softly. "I know you heard me. What are you waiting for?"

_Well. She knows._

She stood in the doorway with a fist on her hip, loosely postured with strange feline-like grace. Tucked under her right arm was a two-foot long bundle of plain brown cloth. Her other hand held a fish, limp and lifeless, bloody and battered. Her eyes, cat-like, watched him from the doorway. She was soaking wet of course, as she'd gone fishing by diving in the water. Her people did not use fishing poles, or "trap sticks" as she called it, to go fishing-Claera was deeply offended when he tried to teach her how to use one.

She set the fish down on a rickety wooden table with only three legs, and placed the bundle next to it. It was the only piece of furniture the landlord has decided to include with the room, besides the bed. The question hung unanswered in the air, its edge sharp like a knife, as she crossed the room and passed him.

She dipped her hands gingerly in the washbasin, quickly rinsing them off. After drying them, she unwrapped the bundle slowly, her face unreadable.

Tyrion caught a glimpse of steel out of the corner of his eye. It was, no doubt, a sword—a rapier, judging by its length and width. Still, he didn't take the bait. He continued plucking strings, hoping that she would just forget about it.

Sparks spit and hissed off the blade as she dragged the grindstone along its edge, her body turned away from her.

"Tyrion—",

"I'm waiting for the next boat to come," he immediately spat , "You know that." He bit the last part off, hoping that she would get the message and leave it alone. His clothing, dark and plain working clothes with the sleeves pulled up, felt uncomfortably tight.

"You've been telling me that for four days now, Tyrion. I doubt you miss the boat every day. A dock worker told me you were looking for a boat that set sail two weeks from now. Why would you do that?" Her voice was like a child's, perusing something that didn't matter. "Careful, there will be rain soon," she added quickly, gesturing towards the window with her rapier. The flame hissed and cracked defiantly.

He looked up and out the window for the first time in a while. _The day is nearly done. My god, the sun is about to set. _The window was built almost _directly_ on top of the fireplace, to allow smoke to easily escape, but whenever it rained the fireplace was immediately doused. It was more than a little annoying, especially to Tyrion, who enjoyed the warmth of a constant flame.

"I only missed it three times." He replied, tongue in cheek. "I didn't bring enough fare for it the last time." He knew the words were a lie as soon as he said them. The wind sighed outside the door of the cabin, signaling the coming rain.

Sure as a goblins fee, a light rain began to fall outside. Tyrion laid down the lute carefully and stood, closing the window, and returning to where he was. Picking up the lute, he began to slowly play simple notes, testing and prodding and careful like a man standing on thin ice. Then he began to play free form.

"Your music—"

Tyrion stopped playing, eagerly awaiting a compliment. He turned to face her.

"Your music," She continued after a moment, "is like a gnoll," she spat in common with a heavy accent, "thick and clumsy, his head not even two fingers wide."

_Here she goes again, with her foreign idioms._

"Not a regular gnoll, either, one that is not the sharpest tool in the box of sharpened tools."

Tyrion sighed, continuing despite her best efforts to insult his music. She would try to speak louder so that he could hear her words, and he would just play louder or faster until she stopped. Eventually she stopped trying to speak her mind and went back to sharpening her blade.

He sighed, satisfied at his victory, and turned back to the closed window, his music flowing content and free like a fat cat lying in grass.

Playing his recorders and lutes always brought peace to his mind. His fingers dragged clumsily over the notes—he was never "skilled" at playing either the recorder or the lute, but the heart of it was there. Unfortunately, his fingers were too stupid and slow to keep up with his mind-

"You know," Her voice shattered the comfortable silence like a hammer. "You are very different from other humans I have met."

Tyrion skipped a note by accident.

"Where most are strong," she continued over his music, "you are intelligent. Where most are vicious, you are skilled. Where most are cruel," Her voice came, quieter. "You are gentle... but you have a great anger when roused…" She suddenly propped down on the bed next to a surprised Tyrion, almost making him jump out of his skin.

The shock caused him to lose his tempo. The rhythm collapsed and imploded. His playing slowed to a crawl, slowly unwinding like a crank-up toy. He put down the lute, looking up to see her amused smirk. Anger surged in his chest. As the days went on and the stuck-up Blood Elf became progressively more bored, she began to see Tyrion as her play-thing, and he didn't like it one bit.

"So, what," he spat, "What's it to you?" Annoyance began to creep into his voice. He tucked a blond-white bang behind his ear.

"I don't know you very well, Tyrion, but I knowthat you are not that _stoop-yd_. You are a smart human." Her accent was still thick and strange when she spoke Common, her tongue bending and warping the wordsuntil they were barely recognizable, but she was getting better at it. Still, she could not tell the difference between "boy" and "man", "Know and knew", or "wood" and "tree". She cut her words short and spoke loudly, causing her to sound like a woman reprimanding her child every time she tried to speak Common.

"You could have left a long time ago. Go back to da' Eastern Kingdoms. That was your plan…correct?" There it was. "Da'" instead of "The", his pet peeve. She'd picked that one up from a homeless troll. He could feel the beastial-esque heat radiating from her skin as she got closer, a little too close for his liking. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and she wore nothing but white sleeping garb.

_She smells like heat. Like struggle, like wrestling. Like sex..._

"Why are you wearing pajamas to go fishing?" he asked numbly.

She stared at him for a moment, her fiery green eyes unflinching. Then, she smirked-He knew she was considering pointing out his obvious avoidance of the subject. Instead, she gave him mercy. "These clothes are the most comfortable," she said loftily, " I have no reason to ever wear anything else. I would go hunting wearing only the skin God gave me, but you humans get shocked to death when you see a naked person."

A ghost of a smile flashed on his lips, but for only a second. _A Christian Blood Elf. That's a hell of a joke. _

"What are you waiting for, Tyrion?" She repeated, like a parakeet.

His mouth hung open for a second, shocked by the sudden change. Then he shut it. "Leave me alone." He could feel her moving next to him.

He looked up at her and quickly away, noticing how alarmingly close she was. _Is she doing it on purpose?_ They were almost nose to nose. He felt his body react to her proximity. His trousers felt tighter. She rested a hand on his thigh and smirked. He could see the amusement behind her eyes.

A dozen thoughts and sensations sprang forth. He scooted away from her and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"Fuck off, alright? Why don't you go find someone else to piss off? There's plenty of people in the tavern to play your sick games with."

For a moment, the only sound was the rain falling outside.

"I'm scared," he blurted out suddenly, still facing away from her. "How am I supposed to lead people? I don't have any experience or skill… I wasn't meant to use weapons, either. I can barely hold a pistol right, and I don't even know how to use a blade. I collect coins and read books, write poems and play instruments," he said, "I don't lead men and wage wars." His eyes rested on the cold floor, deep in thought.

"Oh, I see. So, you are a commander of the humans." She seemed to mull over her thoughts as well.

For some reason, Tyrion did not feel the sensation that he was in a room with another human being. She gave off a primal-like aura, furiously warm and dangerous, like a felt the sensation that he was in a room with a beast-as if he were standing next to dog, or a horse, or a tiger, or some dragon _disguised_ as a human.

Her muscles contracted like pistons as she moved-So deliberate, so timely, so efficiently, that it was inhuman. But she had two legs and two arms and two eyes like him, how could she be so different?

"You're a coward."

Tyrion opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it, then shut it again, at a loss for words.

"You look like a fish when you do that. " She laughed deeply, like velvet wrapped around thunder. His face flushed suddenly in pure rage.

"This is all a game to you, or something? I'm being serious! I can't go there, I won't be able to-" She cuffed him hard, on the side of the head, from where she sat, like a mother knocking sense into a child. Before he could react, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him closer so that they were face to face. The strike was more demeaning than damaging.

**"Are you just going to keep running away?"** She yelled, face to face with him.

Her face was an emotionless mask as always, but her eyes almost looked angry. Almost. She had the high cheekbones and thin eyebrows of her people, but she complained constantly that she was considered "plain faced" by her own people. Still, her face was beautiful in it's simplicity, like a simple drawing by a great artist. A glint of bright, neon-like green light flashed in her almond shaped eyes whenever she laughed, an olive color whenever she was playful, and a low blazing viridian color whenever she was upset. At the moment they were a deep, deep viridian.

_Its funny what you notice when you're arguing._

They sat there like that, neither one willing to break the stare, Human to Blood Elf. Tyrion suddenly slapped her hand away from his shirt and walked to the window, standing in front of it, almost directly on top of the smoldering coals. The rain felt good on his face, and it cooled his anger somewhat.

_Remember, Tyrion, _he thought to himself, _She is all that you have right now, and you are all she has. She is a business partner in a mutual relationship of neccessity to survive, not a friend or a lover. We are bound by neccessity, not compassion. Take nothing she says personally._

He turned back to her, his hair now fully matted to his forehead with rainwater. She still sat in the same spot.

"I will…" She began gesturing with her hands, but quickly switched to Thallasian. "I will escort you for a little while if you wish, Tyrion. I am not as eager as I say to return to my home." The rain fell harder, as if in protest. The open flame underneath fought valiantly to stay alive. The fish lay forgotten near the door.

He was tired, he realized. He slid the curved lute into its plain sheath, gingerly, and bent over to push it under the bed. Then he lay back across the bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He didn't feel like talking anymore, or thinking. It was the end of the day, he decided, and he would finally leave tomorrow. Claera laid back too, next to him. Their stomachs roiled loudly, but neither of them felt like getting up to cook dinner. So they laid there. He fought the urge to look at her, to drink in her appearence with his eyes.

_She knows I lied to her. That's not the only reason I haven't left._

* * *

He woke with a start, scrambling for his knife, only to realize that it was Claera who woke him. Unconscious, she laid an arm across his chest and pulled him closer, causing him to wake. She was curled up next to him, snoring lightly on his shoulder. A memory emerged to the surface of his conscience. He'd asked her why she was wearing no shirt after they both woke up one morning. She replied by asking him why he was shirtless, too. So he spent an hour trying to explain how it was okay for a man to be shirtless in public, but not a woman. She didn't understand an ounce of it, and she still slept shirtless to this day.

So it was no surprise when she was wearing one less shirt than he remembered. Although she was almost breast-less, she was still a woman; Her cup-sized breasts bent lazily to the side; Her nipples were twice as dark as her skin, small and hard like dark raspberries. Her arms, chest, and stomach was seized by goose bumps due to the rain that still fell outside, loud and defiant. The fire had long lost its battle, now nothing more than wet ashes. A pool of water began to form around the fireplace.

After pulling himself together, he leaned his head back against the pillow. It was the first time they slept in the same bed, at the same time. He tried to pull away from her, but there was no clever way to do it without waking her.

_How can she not think there is anything wrong with this?_

He inhaled the smell of her hair accidentally—she smelled like a pinecone found on the floor of a rain forest, with a hint of fur and sweat, and heat radiated from her skin like a furnace. She smelled of earth and all things that came with it. She yawned, shuffling around a bit, ending in virtually the same position except with her leg resting over his. He tried to ignore her proximity and sleep, occasionally waking to realize that he was holding her.

It was the best sleep he ever had, awkwardness aside.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Quite the Quest**

"So that's it then." Tyrion caught his breath, satisfied with the story he told so expertly in Thallasian.

Claera nodded deeply, as if mulling over his words. She scratched her chin, staring at the ground as they walked.

"I cannot understand your grammar fully, but I can grasp your meaning. You are getting better. But still, that is quite the story. You didn't make it up, did you?"

Tyrion shook his head, shrugging his travelers' pack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders. "No...I swear it." He tied his brown traveling boots up to the knee, brushed himself off, and began down the wooden staircase towards the crowded dock. She followed. He wore his plainest clothing today, simple and brown.

"That is quite the quest," She called out from behind him after a moment. "I mean, I knew you had to return home, but…I didn't know it was this bad." He slowed to allow her to catch up with him. When she reached his side, he saw that her face was a pale strawberry milk color, but expressionless as always. She wore rich green hunting leathers today, matching her eyes.

"Well, at least you know what you're getting into now." He had to force himself to look away from her face. They slowed as they reached the bottom of the stairs. A tauren shopkeep passed them on the way up, smelling suprisingly of flowers and cinnamon.

"If I were you, I wouldn't head directly to Stormwind. I'm sure you realize that it's a stupid idea to do that." She searched around in her pack, then unrolled a tattered map.

She stabbed a finger on the map. "Kalimdor. That is where you should go. To Gadgetzan, in particular."

"Gadgetzan? Why?" He could feel hope rising in his chest. As long as he didn't have to head directly to Stormwind yet, he would be ecstatic. Any way out was welcome. He could see himself now, returning to Stormwind. He would be a skinny, frail teenager claiming that he was the prince. People would deem him a mad man. He'd be left to the street urchins. Eventually, the men who tried to end him back home would find out that he was there, and silence him.

"Well," Her voice broke his train of thought before it got any worse. "I have some contacts that could help you out. Which would make my mission easier."

"Mission?" He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, mission? When did this become a mission?"

"When you saved my life," She said seriously. "I feel as if I owe you, and a Blood Elf always repays her debts."

A middle-aged Orc tried to hawk off a fur coat to Claera, who side stepped him and shook her head, mumbling something like "I have no money." The occasional one or two people turned into ten or twenty, and soon they were deeply emerged in the mid-day crowd of the Booty Bay docks.

"Hmm. Well," He switched back to Common now that they spoke of less important things. He had to shout to be heard over the bustle of the crowd. "Its not good to change your plans on such short notice, right…?"

Claera just looked at him through the crowd. Her silence said enough.

"I suppose it's my only choice, then…" They turned back to head for the Gadgetzan docks. The sun pressed down on them viciously, like the thumb of a tyrant. Sea gulls circled lazily above the dock, and the Great Sea swelled and shrunk in a steady rhythm. The smell of salt water invaded his nostrils, overriding all of the other smells that would normally plague such a place.

* * *

The coins glittered brightly as Claera dropped them into his outstretched palm.

The goblin sneered greedily, happy that he managed to get customers regardless of his high prices. He looked up at them, then nodded, sweat streaming down his green brow.

When he said, "Alright, go on in," Claera realized he had gold teeth.

They made their way to the cabin they rented out. The boat was nearly empty, except for maybe seven or eight passengers and twice as many crewmen—while they could've easily gotten a cheaper boat to the same place, those were crowded with hundreds of people, any of which could be working against him. This boat, although luxurious, was far too large- but it provided more subtlety than the other boat, and they needed that more than anything.

They were asleep as soon as they dropped their luggage and locked the door. Not together, as they had the night before, but still in the same bed.

* * *

Over the first week of traveling, they made a special note of each passenger.

There was a middle-aged man with a short jet-black beard and muttonchops, completely bald, and always grinding his teeth. Tyrion guessed he was either a Stormwind city guard, or perhaps a veteran of the Second War. He wore just a plain breastplate to show his authority and simple linens, and of course his blade. Claera and Tyrion only ever saw him when he left his room to go to the pitiful excuse of a bar.

There was a woman no older than Claera, a green-tinged troll girl with blue dreadlocks that she kept in a long ponytail. Her face was heart shaped and round, her body long and lithe but strong like rope—like Claera, there was little to no fat on her entire body. She woke early in the morning every day to go on the deck and perform some sort of dance. It was slow, and bending, and looked like it took a lot of effort on the performer. Only after four days at sea did Tyrion realize that it was a stretching routine. After her dance, she would simply stare out at the sea, grinning like an idiot, until it was time to eat. Tyrion saw her early in the morning when he went to relieve himself into the ocean every day, and wanted to speak to her, but didn't want to break her routine. There was something wrong with her, something off, but Tyrion couldn't quite put his finger on it.

There was a gruff goblin that was related to the ship owner. He made rounds on the ship all day every day, cleaning and scrubbing until he earned his keep. He was always smoking some type of cigar, or cigarette, or blunt, and he was always knocking on cabin doors to ask for trash.

Claera and Tyrion glimpsed another troll later that week, male, tall and quiet. He was of a similar tinge to the female, albeit slightly darker. His troll attributes stood out much more than the other girl as well—His tusks were small, but pointed. His hair was much more wild as well, long and cyan and loosely tucked behind both pointed ears. He was always gambling, or on the way to gambling. He stood completely straight, in contrast to most trolls, and Claera even overhead him speaking common. He seemed to like coffee.

There was a portly Orc on the ship who always cooked and ate food, whether with the ship chef or in his own cabin. He was twice as big as Tyrion, and twice as loud, but he always had a smile. Unfortunately, he didn't speak one word of common, which most ship members did. Claera could find him in the ships' little eating room at any time of the day or night.

There were two undead brothers who only spoke to each other in Gutterspeak. They wore all black, carried rusted swords, and were rarely seen unless they were walking around joking to each other. For some reason, they also seemed to have a fondness for chess and chocolate. They fished together in the middle of the night, as Claera learned unexpectedly one day.

Then there was the man who stood out most. He, too, was undead, but he was different from the other two. His entire head was wrapped, with only rips in the cloth around his eyes and mouth so that he could breathe and see. He had the most notable blade of anyone on the ship, a long claymore that he kept on his back. With a lean, hungry look in his eye, Tyrion knew better than to not watch him. The only thing he did was meditate, and it didn't matter where. On the deck, in the kitchen, he was always meditating somewhere with his eyes open or closed.

It wasn't until the second week at sea that he made his move.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Tuskless**

"**Hey**," someone croaked, "You gonna' finish that?"

Tyrion looked up to see one of the Undead brothers standing near the table he was seated at. A worm crawled out of his eye. The skin peeled back to reveal bone. His flesh rotted off his cheeks, the **smell**—

"No." Tyrion slid the bowl across the table. "You can have it."

"Thanks, mate. Name is Cochise. If you need directions around the ship or something, let me know." He snatched up the bowl with one skeletal hand, smoothing down his patchy hair with one hand. "I've been on this boat so many damn times, I know it better than my own hand." "Cochise" took a slurp of the thin beef soup, smiled contently, and left the kitchen room. The smell of death left with him.

For a moment, it was only Tyrion staring at the table and the loud Orc sitting on the other side of the room, wolfing down the soup as if it were water. His hair, long and black and braided, hung thickly from his shoulder.

The troll passed him on the way in, her pearl white smile bringing warmth to the simple wooden room. While it was **called** a kitchen, it was really nothing more than a spare closet with a window where the ship chef spooned gruel and thin soup into bowls. "Hey, Gobak." The fat Orc nodded at her, his mouth full.

She piped, "What's for dinner?"

"Beef and potatoes," he said around a mouthful.

She clapped her hands together, her face lighting up. "Wonderful. I like the beef and potatoes very much." She walked to the vacant window and rang the bell. Rang it twice. Rang it three times.

She seemed to notice Tyrion for the first time, turning to smile shyly at him. He smiled back.

It was then that he noticed that she was missing her tusks.

Smile gone, his gut sank into his stomach, deeply disturbed. It was like seeing a person without a face. It was as if a monster were _trying_ to be disguised as a Troll, rather than actually being one. His face showed disgust for only a fraction of a second, but he caught himself.

Unfortunately, he couldn't fake where his eyes were looking.

Her smile faded quickly, then she shook her head. She turned to await the cook, her dreads swirling behind her as she spun away.

The cook appeared in the window, a dwarf two heads shorter than anyone else on the boat, even the goblins. He stood on a crate under the windowpane so that she could see his face, wiping his hands sloppily on his apron.

"What?"

"Two servings soup, please!" She bowed slightly, smiling as she did so.

The dwarf didn't budge, looking at her with what Tyrion imagined was his version of a questioning look.

"It's for my brother and I." she added quickly.

"Oh." He leapt from the crate and stomped away from the window, leaving it vacant again.

"Excuse me," Tyrion blurted.

She turned to look, not smiling this time.

"Who is your brother, if you don't mind me asking?" He asked.

She was silent for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "The only other troll on the ship. Tall one, with the hair as long as mine." She shifted her hips. "He saw you, he said. He was joking about how small you looked."

_Oh. Its one of __**those**__ people._ He almost said, "But you don't look like a troll."

Instead, he said "Oh, I'm sorry." After a moment, he realized he had said it accidentally in Thallasian, and then switched to common and repeated it. "Tyrion." He added quickly after he was done.

She burst into a smile. "Ilyria."

The dwarf returned with the bowls, dropping them in the window and disappearing before she could ask for more.

She scooped up one in each hand as he entered.

Only his teeth and eyes showed in the rips of his head wrap. He plopped down across from Tyrion, at the same table, staring at him the whole time. Ilyria blurted an excuse to leave and was out of the room. The masked man turned and stared at the one Ilyria called Gobak, until he too grabbed his bowl and left.

He turned back to Tyrion, clenching both fists on the table where he could see them. Tyrion stared back.

"Don't you want to know my name, human?" His voice was quiet and raspy, like velvet being wrapped around broken glass.

"No, not in particular." He decided to stand to leave. The figure pulled a long, thin dirk from his side and laid it on the table, evenly, between them. They both could have reached for it and grabbed it within the span of a second.

"Go ahead," He said, "**Reach for it**." Tyrion's eyes locked on the hilt of the blade, but his hand only quivered at his side.

The man smiled wickedly, his yellowed teeth like daggers. "Do you know what your sin is, Tyrion?"

Ice-cold fear began to creep into his bowels. _How does he know my name?_

The other troll stepped into the room, Ilyria as his side. He was much taller close up than he appeared far away; he even had to duck to get under the doorway. He was wearing goggles today, and black nobleman's clothing. His chest had the insignia of a black sun on it, against a gray background. Tyrion didn't recognize it, and he'd seen many insignias.

_Wow. He is at least 6"10. I've never seen a troll that tall…_

His jaw was cleanly shaven, with only a small handsome goatee remaining. He had a scar running down his left cheek, and his hair was tied back in a night-elvish ponytail that reached halfway down his back. He was toned, but not really muscled, just enough so that it was visible.

_His skin is too smooth for a troll, and his posture too straight. Weird._

"Causing trouble, mouthbreather?" His voice was deep and smooth, like coffee.

The man turned as if he'd just noticed him. His sister ducked behind him.

"No, Val'zul. Go waste more money on that gambling addiction of yours, I have business to settle."

"**Put away the blade, Maxwell."** Val'zul said, His voice hard like steel.

Maxwell sat for a moment, then sighed. He snatched up the blade and concealed it, shaking his head. Maggots fell from between the folds of his head wrap. "This isn't over, human. I'll have my blood." He stood up, brushing off his clothing, and headed towards the door. Val'zul caught his eye. They stared at each other , chest to chest, for what seemed like an eternity.

Then he left.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Sorry for the lack of updates guys. Had to deal with real life, and to get over (without revealing too many details) a close family member's death and the following addiction to sex and marijuana. Meh.

Thats partly a lie. Lets just say I've been playing L. A. Noire and reading A Dance Of Dragons for the last 6 months. I may even sprinkle a couple of easter eggs in here and there.

Either way, Im fine now. Back in town and all that, it would seem. So, without further ado...

**-Jakkani**

**P.S: **For those of you who don't know, a " Cargo Hold" or "Hold" is the room where a ship stores goods while its being delivered.

**CHAPTER 16: THE SEA**

**He drank his way across the great sea.**

He knew that out on the ocean, sailors and passengers have four things in abundance at all times- salt water, wind, time, and wine. A hooded figure stole into the cargo hold in the dead of night, lock-pick in hand. The lock that was built into the heavy door only had two tumblers, and was no match for fingers deft and clever as a troll's.

The rain poured in as Val'Zul quietly closed the door behind himself. He pulled the hood off and lit a candle, walking down the aisle of the hold. The candle bathed the room in a warm, red glow. It was a long room with one aisle, with large stacks of barrels every two or three feet. The ships hold was stocked to the ceiling with casks and casks of drink, as they were going to make a massive shipment to the goblins of Gadgetzan. Val'Zul scratched the scar on his left cheek idly, trying to decide where to start. He sat down on the floor of the cargo hold, setting down the candle and peeled off his dripping-wet gloves, stopping to stare at his hands. It was the only thing that gave away his lineage- he didn't have a trolls' hands with two large fingers and a thumb. He had four thin fingers and a thumb, instead. He clenched and unclenched his hands slowly, staring at them.

The first couple of barrels he pried open and drank from were water, clear and crystal, probably filtered. The second bunch of barrels were filled with various fruit juices. The third was filled with lye, the fourth with honey. Both of them made him gag. Val'Zul decided to try one more barrel before he quit.

The fifth cask was, shockingly, a sweet red wine that left his lips blood-red, the sixth a hardy dwarven whiskey that burned his chest as he carefully drank around his pointed tusks. He ran a hand through his hair as his head began to swim. He sampled the sixth, seventh, and eigth casks, which were a mixture of foreign liquor that he had no name for- which was suprising, as Val'Zul considered himself to be a connosoir.

He burped drunkenly."Yeah...I've had my fill." He pushed the stopper back into the keg hole clumsily. He turned, realizing that he'd spilt the wine wherever he drank. The world spun and rocked dangerously as he stumbled towards the door- he wasnt sure if the storm had gotten worse, or he drank too much. Pulling up his hood, he opened the door slowly and closed it behind himself, stepping out into the night.

The sails whipped and snapped wildy as the wind blew through them. No man was foolish enough to be on deck while it was storming, besides the men who had to. Gobak and the dwarven cook screamed to be heard over the booming storm as they rapidly tied and untied knots under the sail. The trash-collecting goblin was on the sail itself, clinging to it, looking out over the ocean and screaming down whatever he saw. One of the undead brothers was there too, trying to steady himself on the rocking boat. Val Zul couldnt see if it was Cochise or the other brother.

Although the storm was big, the boat was bigger. She was sturdy, and Val' Zul knew that she wasnt going to sink to a storm like this, although the unsteady waters would sicken everyone on board that wasnt used to it. He pulled the hood and cloak tighter around himself. His clothing, simple and black, was being soaked through. He was so wet that the insignia of his house, a gray sun against a black background, wasnt even recognizable. The light chain mail he always wore under his clothing was probably rusting.

He made his way downstairs, his scar itching wildly. He stomped into the kitchen, hoping to get stew to warm the chill from his bones, but instead was greeted by Tyrion. He wore faded baby blues today, was shoeless and sitting cross-legged on the table, and playing some sort of stringed instrument. He looked up at Val'zul in fear. His face grew pale.

Val'Zul quickly pulled back his hood, revealing his face. Tyrion sighed, smiling with relief. "I thought you were someone else."

He scowled gently. "Is anyone else as tall as me on this boat?" The fact that he was able to say that without slurring his words amazed him.

"Well, no, I guess not." Tyrion bit his finger nail. "Why are you here?"

" I should ask you the same. Its past midnight. " Val'Zul looked around, surveying the room. "I wanted soup." Three short words that he could barely put together. His mind felt clumsy, like his thoughts were covered in syrup.

"Well, you're out of luck. That orc, Gobak, and the really short dwarf are on deck." He paused, looking the troll up and down. "Why are you so wet?"

Val'Zul realized that he'd seen the only two cooks earlier on the deck, screaming out commands. He turned to make his leave. "Wait," Tyrion piped. "I want to show you something."

Val'Zul stopped halfway through the door and turned. "What? Hurry up. I...have to go." His brain pounded against his skull. The wine seemed to pulsate through his every vein. His past began to haunt him, as it always did when he was drunk. _I might just go back and take another swig to help me forget._

The boy's fingers plucked at the instrument, flooding the room with music. His playing was crude, and poor, but the song was beautiful, like an uncut gem. It was some sort of sad song, he guessed, probably about a civilization long gone-or maybe some type of foreign love song. As the song went on and he played through the chorus again, he found himself thinking about all of the women that he'd romanced and left in his past.

_Why do I leave women who love me? Why do I always kill the things I love?_

The song made him feel both melancholic and nostalgic at once. The discomfort of his drunkenness faded as his mind was distracted, making him feel clear and sober. He found himself quietly taking a seat across from Tyrion, who seemed to be lost in his song. His eyes, a vibrant blue tonight, were half-open as he played, but he wasn't looking at anything in particular. Val'Zul smirked inwardly, as he always had an appreciation for music.

_The sign of a good musician. One who neither closes his eyes or keeps them all the way open._

He played the chorus again. Val'zul studied the boy, taking in all of his details should he need them later. His face was long and thin and pale, like some type of prince. He had long eyelashes, and slightly large eyes. He'd shrunk since he got on the ship, as Val' Zul remembered him having much more muscle at the beginning of the cruise. After a week or two, that muscle faded to thinness.

_He has too many feminine traits for an average boy, _Val'Zul decided. He stopped playing abruptly, as if he'd heard his thought. The last notes faded away. He found himself wanting more of the song.

Tyrion seemed to return to his body as he looked up and smiled nervously. "Did you like it?"

_I loved it._

"I...hated it. Have a good night." He pulled his hood up and departed, leaving young Tyrion alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Arrival**

A black wolf moved through a black wood, beneath a pale cliff as tall as the sky. The full moon ran with him, slipping through the tangle of bare branches overhead, obscuring the starry sky.

"**Tyrion**," the moon murmured.

The wolf paused, but made no answer. Snow crunched beneath his paws as he shifted uneasily. The wind sighed through the trees, sending him off at another sprint through the woods. He skipped from branch to branch, his agility inhuman. And far off, he could hear his pack mates calling to him, wolf to wolf. 

He broke through the clearing, noticing his brother and father for the first time. They were hunting too- A wild rain was lashing down upon his larger brother as he tore at the flesh of an enormous goat, washing the blood from his side where the goat's long horn had raked him as he took it down. His father, even larger than his brother, lifted his head to sing to the moon, and a hundred small grey cousins broke off their hunt to sing with him. The hills were warmer where they were, and full of game and the howling of wolves.

"**Tyrion**," the moon called down again, cackling.

The wolf's ear twitched suddenly as if listening intently, but the sound didn't come again. His father began to feast alongside his brother, both of them tearing into the side of the goat.

"**Tyrion...**" the moon insisted, like a persistent lover. 

The black wolf suddenly decided to run from the moon, leaving his brother and father behind. He was a black arrow racing past the ice, his breath frosting in the air. On starless nights the great cliff was as black as stone, a darkness towering high above the wide world, but when the moon came out it shimmered pale and icy as a frozen stream. The wolf's pelt was thick and shaggy, but when the wind blew along the ice no fur could keep the chill out. He kept running. He had to get away from his family.

**"Tyrion."** An icicle tumbled from a branch. The white wolf turned toward the sound and bared his teeth. The wolf's fur rose bristling, as the woods dissolved around him. 

**"TYRION!"** The call was accompanied by the beat of wings and the sensation of falling. The world came crashing down. His eyes flickered open in darkness so deep that he wasn't sure they were open, until through the gloom he could make out two bright green eyes. She was, of course, not sleeping. He could not make out any other part of her face or body. She was standing over him. She had been trying to shake him awake, he realized.

"I heard you." The room was dim, his bed hard. Although the cabin did not have any windows, Tyrion could tell that it was going to be another long, rainy day. He curled up in the cocoon of blankets, eager to ignore the world and who he was.

"Get up, then, _valianodantil,_and come outside. Quick! Stop being lazy."

"Is this how you wake everyone you meet? Or just humans? Get your hands off me." Tyrion wriggled an arm out from under his blankets to brush the girl off from where she held him by the shoulders. She grabbed him by the foot instead and started dragging him across the room by an ankle. He immediately started resisting, but her grip was like iron and he was only half awake. She opened the cabin door with her free hand.

He was immediately blinded by sunlight. This enough shocked him enough to stop resisting. She let him go, allowing him to stand angrily. He walked tentatively to the edge of railing, not believing his eyes. There was no rain. And no ocean. In fact, there was mostly just sand as far as he could see from this side of the boat. Huts and other small buildings dotted the desert landscape, as well as a dozen dead trees.

He turned to Claera with a look of utter confusion on his face, then turned around to go inside. "Wait, that's not all," She said with excitement. "Come here." She grabbed him again as he turned away, this time by the wrist, pulling a scowling Tyrion hastily to the bow of the ship. She wore the same simple clothing as yesterday, loose white linens and no shoes, and her hair down so that you could not see the tips of her ears. Here, on this boat, she seemed very different from the armored sin'dorei warrior that she was supposed to be...In fact, with her hair down, she looked almost human. Her feet skipped eagerly on the wood of the deck as they rounded the corner.

As he came around the corner he could see that they were anchored to a rickety wooden wharf that led to Gadgetzan. The massive city rose out of the desert like an oasis, with dozens and dozens of members of every race running about, but the goblins outnumbered all of them. They stood at every doorway armed to the teeth with maces and mail, and they patrolled the large trading outpost with vigilance. Tyrion made a mental note of the bank, the inn and several other buildings from where he stood, the most notable being a massive iron cage arena directly in the center of the city. The desert city was even bigger than Booty Bay, it seemed. Beyond Gadgetzan stretched an endless expanse of desert and rock, a golden sea dotted with black and brown. The sun shone violently on the town, but the gentle sea breeze cooled it off.

"Okay. So its Booty Bay with sand instead of grass. Great."

* * *

"So, how are you going to actually get to Silvermoon?" Tyrion asked openly as they made their way through the winding streets towards the northern side of town. Although the city was incredibly populated, it was somewhat spread out, with roads wide enough to walk shoulder to shoulder. It was turning to dusk quickly. Claera reached up to scratch her nose as she replied nonchalantly, "I'm probably going to fly."

"From where? Tranquillien?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she answered with a curt "No."

"Where, then?"

"I'm not telling you. I am not your friend, nor do I trust you." 

The beginning of anger curled in his stomach, but was quickly forgotten as they left the city gates and walked up to the dwarven flightmaster. She had a leathered hand rested on the head of a sleeping gryphon, reading "Uther The Lightbringer" with the other. Her feet were kicked up on a stool, and there was a short squat table in front of her stool. She had a tiny canopy built overhead to keep off the sun.

"Where ya' headed?" She asked from behind her novel as she heard them approach.

"One for Ironforge. I dont know where she's going." He pointed over his shoulder. The dwarf lowered her book slightly, regarding them both up and down, and then went back to reading. She spit before saying "Two silver."

Tyrion began to dig in his pockets as Claera came forward, quickly saying "Two for Ironforge." She produced two of her own silver.

A thousand questions came to Tyrion at once. Instead, he mutely set the silver down on the table in front of her. Cleara set her pieces next to his. The dwarf sighed, closing her book, and scooped up the silver before rousing her gryphon. The gryphon, even lazier than its owner, refused to move from its comfortable spot in the sun.

The dwarf kicked it in the ribs. The gryphon still didn't want to move, instead shifting over so that her kicks hit his back instead. The beast yawned, completely ignoring its master. She kicked it again. This time, nothing happened. "She'll be ready in just a moment."

_Good._ He gestured for Claera, who was counting her coins, to follow him. They walked a good twenty feet from the irritated dwarf, who was now attempting to wrestle her gryphon awake. Her entire body was wrapped around the massive gryphon's neck in a desperate attempt at a full-body choke hold, but still she couldn't get its attention. The beast sat there and yawned repeatedly as the tiny dwarf tried her hardest to tame it, casually stretching its limbs and going back to sleep.

"We need to talk." He sat on a small outcropping of rock, bringing one hand to his chin as he thought.

Claera frowned. "What do we need to discuss?"

"You. I noticed something. You're a liar."

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. You are not here with me because you like being with me, or because you want to be here. Correct?"

She took a moment to respond. "Yes, correct."

"You are here due to circumstance, you claim. But, here's the problem. You are friendly towards me sometimes, which I immediately thought was suspicious. But then, you said "_A__blood__elf__always__repays__her__debts_," which confirmed my suspicious. You're lying about something. What does that mean, what debt? Why are you really traveling with me?"

Claera sighed, as if she was hesitant to answer.


End file.
